


in the sunlight, amongst the rhododendrons

by graves_expectations



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst, Developing Relationship, First Kiss, First Time, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Masturbation, Period-Typical Homophobia, Slow Burn, atonement au, depiction of war-time and all that entails, no rape or major character death like in the original atonement, one instance of side character death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-11-08 21:29:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 48,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11090298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graves_expectations/pseuds/graves_expectations
Summary: This abominable heatwave will be Credence’s undoing. It makes him foolish, unbalanced, and—most concerning of all—impulsive.Atonement AU. On the hottest day of the summer in 1937, Percival Graves receives a letter that was never meant to be read.ETA JANUARY 2018 - it's very, very unlikely that I'll be finishing this. I thought I should forewarn!





	1. April, 1937

_April, 1937 - Tarrytown, New York_

Chastity’s face is alight with purpose when she gives Credence the news. She’s just run across the lawns to find him, her hair fluttering about in the balmy breeze while the stiff skirt of her maid’s dress stands firm.

“He’s just arrived now!” she says, hands flapping at him in order to chivvy him along towards their cottage at the bottom of the gardens. “Quick, you have to make yourself presentable!”

“What?” Credence lets himself be pushed because he already has a good idea who his sister is talking about. “Who’s arrived?”

“The young Master! Mister Graves! Although, he’s not quite so young _now_.”

At the confirmation of his suspicions, Credence feels as if his heart has just leapt into his throat. It makes a home for itself there, beating hard and fast with a fervour he had naively hoped might burn out with time and distance.

He knew this day was coming; he tried to _prepare_ himself for it. It’s been three long years since he last saw Percival Graves, how can he still be so affected?

Credence begins walking on his own, picking up the pace in fear of being seen before he can bathe and change out of his gardening clothes. The work day isn’t over, but if Mr. Graves has returned, all of his staff should gather to welcome their new employer home. One doesn’t do that covered in sweat and mud and grass stains. Why didn’t Mr. Graves send word of his impending arrival?

Credence’s suddenly vigorous stride means Chastity almost has to jog to keep up with him. As they go, Credence thinks fleetingly of just using a spell to alter his appearance right away. Under the tutelage of the late Mr. Graves Senior, he’d just about perfected a scouring charm... but Chastity would tell Ma and, while he’s no longer totally helpless in the face of her wrath since his condensed magical education, it’s still best not to antagonise her by flaunting his magic.

He’ll have to settle for the old-fashioned way. It was good enough for sixteen years before impossible green sparks and delighted brown eyes and _“Credence, you absolute marvel, I think you might just be magical.”_

When they get to the lodge, Ma is standing in the open doorway in a pale dress that Credence is used to seeing her wear to church, ready to usher Credence in towards the bathroom. In the narrow hallway, Modesty watches him pass with a sullen expression. Her hair and clothes are as immaculate as Ma’s, but she’s scuffing the toe of her nice boots against the floor. Luckily, Ma is too focused on him to notice and chastise her.

“Clean yourself up,” Ma orders, leaving him at the door to the bathroom, “and then put on the clothes I’ve laid out for you. I won’t have you shaming us all in front of Mister Graves.”

His mother may hate the family they work for, but she would certainly never see them brought into disrepute by her actions or those of her adopted children.

The bathwater she has drawn for him is already cold when Credence steps into it after peeling off his work clothes. It’s a typically vindictive touch, but inconsequential when Credence can murmur a single word and have the water warm enough to turn his skin pink.

He stares with unseeing eyes at the peeling, faded paper on the wall opposite the tub, mind stuck on an image of Mr. Graves the last time he saw him for a moment before he shakes his head and remembers his purpose here. He scrubs at the mud tracked all the way up his arms and carefully removes all traces of dirt and grime from beneath his uneven fingernails.

When he goes to his bedroom after drying off, he finds Ma has laid out his church clothes for him to dress in: an itchy white shirt and his ill-fitting jacket and trousers that have turned from black to a dusty grey with years of use. Turning his back on the dreary garments he despises, Credence open his wardrobe and wistfully fingers the sleeve of his one properly tailored suit jacket. The tuxedo had been a gift: “For when you take up your place in our world at last,” Mr. Graves had said (the younger Mr. Graves, _Percival_ to him, once).

The whole suit is exquisitely made and fits Credence like a glove. Percival made sure of that. It’s a world apart from his funereal Sunday best lying on his bed, but it’s far too formal and would be totally inappropriate for the occasion, of course. Even in the right circumstances, it’s still not something he could ever actually wear before the new Master of the house without inviting scorn.

The Graves family have been kind to him, but he is not one of them. The father may have taken a reluctant shine to him and seen to teaching him a few spells on a whim, the son may have treated him like a younger brother in years gone by, but Credence always knew none of it would ever mean him rising beyond the trappings of his station. He’s not foolish enough to fancy himself as anything more than plain old Credence Barebone—a gardener, the orphan turned adopted son of a God-fearing housekeeper.

That Credence Barebone has no business wearing a tuxedo like this one.

Credence shuts the wardrobe again and dresses with haste. Ma will be angry if he dawdles. He attempts to tame his hair in front of the mirror, almost missing the low maintenance cut Ma used to insist upon when he can’t get the curls to lay just so and he has to settle for tying them back with a ribbon. Low maintenance or not, he would sooner take a beating from Ma than allow her to put a bowl on his head and cut around it ever again now, and he’s grateful he won’t have Mr. Graves see him with that awful hairstyle another time.

He knows Ma would be appalled if she knew how sinfully vain his thoughts have become. He can only _imagine_ her reaction if she knew of the _other_ sinful thoughts he’s harboured about Mr. Graves since his teenage years. Heat rushes to Credence’s cheeks and he watches the tell-tale splotches of red form in his reflected face in the mirror.

“Credence!” Ma calls, exasperated.

He knows better than to make her shout a second time. He puts on his shoes before going to join Ma and his sisters to walk up to the main house. Ma eyes his hair with distaste, but refrains from commenting for once.

“You’ll do,” she says. “Hurry now.”

As used to the manor house as Credence is, he still finds the grey stone building daunting as they approach the front entrance. The sheer size of the mansion is enough to give him pause every time he gets near. Every small, sharply arched window seems to look down at him accusingly, as if he does not belong even in the vicinity of a house this grand. The interior, with its narrow hallways and vaulted, ornamented ceilings is even worse and inspires a strange kind of claustrophobia in him. He doesn’t understand how Ma and Chastity cope with it on a daily basis and, since Mr. Graves left, Credence has avoided going inside wherever possible. As the gardener, he’s lucky not to have much reason to be in the house and quite happy to remain in the grounds where he’s more comfortable.

Credence shakes his head to free it of his musings as he and his family come to stand beside the cook at the top of the stone steps leading up to the house. Despite the respectful silence, there’s an undercurrent of anticipation in the assembled crowd. With their former Master laid to rest as of Tuesday last, everyone is wondering what his son will be like to work for. Most of the staff are new compared to the long-serving Barebones and haven’t ever met the younger Mr. Graves. They’re excited to finally see him in the flesh.

 _Mr. Graves is dead, long live Mr. Graves,_ Credence thinks bitterly.

The bitterness dissipates entirely when Mr. Graves strides into their midst, the feeling replaced by a wave of helpless, childish affection for the man and something like relief at just being near him once more. He’s as sharply dressed as ever, resplendent in a navy pinstripe suit with a double-breasted jacket.

If Mr. Graves has aged at all in the last three years, it has only been all for the better when it comes to his appearance. Credence catalogues the familiar shape of his face and body with greedy eyes, finding the only real change he can detect is the barest hint of greying hair at his temples. No matter his age, Mr. Graves has always been the most handsome man Credence has ever known. Admittedly, in his rather sheltered life, Credence has only known a select few, but he still can’t even _imagine_ someone that could appeal to him more.

He longs to touch that gleam of silver hair, to check if it feels coarser than the darker strands slicked back in the middle.

“Good afternoon,” Mr. Graves says.

A chanting of “good afternoon, Mister Graves” comes in return, mismatched in the speed of delivery, from the laid-back, slow-talking cook to one breathless maid who somehow makes the phrase into a single word.

Credence’s own greeting sticks in his throat and no words come out at all. He feels Chastity subtly elbow him in the ribs.

Mr. Graves’s gaze lands on him then, drawn perhaps by his lack of vocalisation with the rest, or maybe he just caught Chastity’s rebuke out of the corner of his eye. Credence’s throat clogs up further when he sees Mr. Graves’s mouth part like he’s forgotten what he wants to say, his eyebrows drawing together in a light frown.

Credence looks down at his feet, unable to bear those eyes on him any longer. Second-guessing what might be in his head was just too much.

“I appreciate you gathering here like this to meet me,” Mr. Graves continues after a moment and Credence can tell without lifting his head that Mr. Graves is looking elsewhere now. “I wanted to take the opportunity to thank you all for your diligent efforts in caring for my father at the end of his life. It’s a great comfort to me to know he wasn’t alone in his final days.”

A rustle of silk and the clack of heels heralds the arrival of Mr. Graves’s step-mother then, dressed in a peach-coloured evening gown _in the middle of the afternoon_ and carrying a nearly empty wineglass. This is the first time Credence has seen Mrs. Graves since her husband’s passing when she took to her room and would accept no visitors but Chastity, her maid.

Mourning clothes may have fallen by the wayside somewhat following the Great War when _everyone_ was mourning for _someone_ generally, but Mrs. Graves’s attire speaks to an indifference to the whole situation that is downright outrageous.

“Are you saying the _servants_ kept your dying father better company than his own wife, darling?” she asks, listing a bit to one side and smiling with a vagueness that gives away just how much she has been drinking up to this point.

“That is precisely what I’m saying,” Mr. Graves replies in a cold tone, one Credence is used to hearing him employ with his step-mother. “I think you should take to your bed again to rest. You look dreadful.”

The newer staff are obviously shocked and discomfited by the interaction. Credence glances at his own mother and sisters, finding their expressions are scandalised too. Is he the only one to have grasped before now just how much Mr. Graves detests the woman? He was uncaring towards his father for most of his life too, even before the death of his beloved mother really drove a wedge between them. His speech of gratitude for their care so far has been nothing more than a masterful bit of theatre. Does no one else see that?

Mrs. Graves reaches out her free hand towards her step-son’s arm only to have him wrench it away before she can make contact.

“You’re right,” she says. “I should go back to bed. I am… I really am very tired.”

With an almost comically lost look haunting her features, she scans the group for Chastity who starts walking over to her even before Mrs. Graves spots her.

“Let’s get you inside, Mistress,” Chastity says gently to her, leading her back inside the mansion.

“Can we get more wine?” can be heard in a stage-whisper from Mrs. Graves as they go.

Mr. Graves shakes his head, jaw tight as he collects himself again. Credence knows that the very idea of causing a scene like that is alien to him, the antithesis of the composed person he strives to be. The knowledge makes Credence’s heart constrict with sympathy for him.

“I’m sorry about that,” Mr. Graves says. “I’m sure you’re all aware that my step-mother is under a great deal of stress.”

Feet shuffle. There is a hesitant murmur of agreement from the crowd.

“Before the interruption, I was going to say I hope you all feel motivated to continue your exemplary work under my employment now,” Mr. Graves goes on. Credence hears a tinge of uncertainty in the words and his chest aches again.

“You will all receive a pay rise to reflect your dedication in this trying time,” Mr. Graves says next, this statement filled with the conviction the previous one lacked. It’s a testament to the fairness of Mr. Graves’s character, but Credence hopes it isn’t a misfire. While no one would refuse the offer of higher pay, the ultimate irony would be the staff privately turning against Mr. Graves because he attempted to buy their loyalty when he always had within him the innate ability to earn more of their respect than his father ever did.

All he has to do is be the man Credence knows him to be. How could they do anything but love that man?

“Thank you,” Mr. Graves says, “that will be all.”

The assembled staff begin to disperse at that, heading off to continue with whatever they were doing before news reached them of Mr. Graves’s appearance at the mansion. Credence makes to do the same when Mr. Graves speaks again.

“Credence,” he calls. “I want to speak to you. About the gardens.”

A heavy weight settles on Credence’s shoulders. He had hoped to have more time before he would have to speak with Mr. Graves alone.

“Of course,” he says, proud when the words come out far steadier than he feels.

“Walk with me,” Mr. Graves says.

His open palm stretches out on his left side and Credence falls into step with him there as requested. He keeps his gaze on the ground while they head towards the fountain in the middle of the gardens, judging by the southward direction Mr. Graves is taking them.

Mr. Graves says nothing as they walk and Credence resolves to speak when spoken to. Instead, he wonders what Mr. Graves wants to ask him, imagining increasingly dire versions of events until he begins to panic about being sacked. He breathes deeply through his nose and reminds himself that the gardens are in fantastic order and, other than perhaps being over-familiar with the family he works for, Credence has committed no offences.

When they reach the fountain—an ostentatious, half-scale reproduction of one of Bernini’s fountains in Rome—Mr. Graves heads over to sit on the raised edge of its retaining wall with Credence trailing behind him miserably. As Credence watches, Mr. Graves draws up one knee to rest on the stone and leans over to skim his hand across the surface of the water.

“I’m sorry if the gardens are not to your liking, sir,” Credence tells Mr. Graves’s back, breaking his resolve so that he might pre-empt any criticism. “I can—”

“What?” Mr. Graves stops his contemplation of the water and turns to look at Credence with a quizzical slant to his eyebrows.

“The gardens,” Credence says, fighting to keep a tremble from the words. “You wanted to ask me about the gardens?”

Mr. Graves waves a dismissive hand. “Oh, damn the gardens,” he says fiercely. “I just wanted to get you alone so I could _speak_ with you, Credence. Why did you stop writing to me?”

Credence gapes at him. For all his imagination, he hadn’t expected Mr. Graves to ask that. He thinks of the bundles of letters in the third drawer of his desk, the only one locked with both key _and_ magic. He thinks of letters he’ll treasure until the day he dies and letters he’d never send if he lived for an eternity.

His thinking obviously keeps him from answering Mr. Graves promptly enough, because he starts speaking again without waiting for Credence. “I had to write to my _father_ to ask after your health in the end,” Mr. Graves says. “I was relieved to hear you hadn’t died or fallen ill.”

“I never meant to concern you,” Credence says, desperate for Mr. Graves to believe him. “I just… I thought you must be tired of my childish scribbles.”

Mr. Graves looks taken aback. “Is that what you thought your letters were to me?”

Credence can’t respond to that because the answer is _“yes”_ and he doubts Mr. Graves would respond favourably. Yes, of course he thought that his correspondence with Mr. Graves was a nuisance. Ten years lie between them, after all, and Mr. Graves’s world has only expanded while Credence’s remains as narrow as it has ever been. He had nothing to write but trivia whilst Mr. Graves told him all of the amazing things he was doing.

He was fourteen when Mr. Graves left the mansion to reside permanently in New York City where he worked for the country’s Magical Congress, but he still visited often and wrote constantly then. Over the years though, Mr. Graves got busier and more important and the speed of his replies decreased. Eunomia, Mr. Graves’s great grey owl, visited less and less frequently and Mr. Graves himself stopped visiting altogether. Doubt grew in Credence’s mind and while he tried to rid himself of the weed, he never succeeded in getting to its roots. It just kept coming back.

“I was surprised to see you here today, to be honest,” Mr. Graves continues when it becomes clear Credence isn’t going to reply again. “I thought you must have moved on. I thought maybe you’d finally taken up my father’s offer to go and study magic properly for a time at Hogwarts. I know Ilvermorny wouldn’t have you at your advanced age but the Brits have always been more unconventional.”

“I,” Credence begins. He swallows hard. “I could never leave Graves House.”

It all came down to the fact that there was far too much to tie him here. Six years ago, when Mr. Graves’s father had mentioned the possibility of him attending a magical school in England, Credence’s first response was trepidation. He had never left the state, let alone the country.

Then, when he thought about it some more beyond a knee-jerk fear of the unknown, he was excited: here was a chance to escape! He could not only leave his adoptive mother behind, he could _learn magic properly._ He would never be powerless again.

Then, when that excitement faded, he had only his rationality and sense of duty left.

He was far too old for school now, he had thought. There would be eleven year olds at Hogwarts who had already mastered everything that he at nearly seventeen years had not. And how would he pay for all that he would need to study magic? Between his family’s relative self-imposed poverty and his Ma’s hatred of ‘witches’, Credence had no hope of funding his journey or his education. Although he knew Mr. Graves’s father meant to be his benefactor, Credence owed the Graves family more than he wished to already.

Those concerns aside, another was paramount: if he left, who would be there for Modesty and Chastity? Chastity might as well be a duplicate of Ma now, but in those days she still had a wilful streak that led to the odd beating here and there if Credence wasn’t around as a distraction. Modesty had only been five years old at the time and a new addition to their family. What would become of her if she was disobedient as she got older? She was so tiny… In the end, Credence just couldn’t leave them. They needed their older brother.

One final concern decided it for him though: if he left, would he ever see Percival again?

He did, he has. All because he stayed. And every time he _has_ seen him, it’s brought more pain and more joy than he can describe, and he wouldn’t change that for anything.

“You couldn’t leave here?” Mr. Graves scoffs. “Why not? I remember now, I invited you to come and stay with me in the city for a while when I was made Director. That was when you stopped responding. Why wouldn’t you visit me?”

Credence remembers too. He remembers Mr. Graves writing to tell him of his promotion to Director of Magical Security at MACUSA at the young age of thirty. He remembers tracing the title and fancying that he felt warmth in his fingertips to match the satisfaction radiating off the paper.

“I was very proud to hear about your promotion,” he says softly, truthfully.

“Proud?” Mr. Graves repeats, and Credence realises he’s overstepped.

“Pleased. I meant to say I was pleased to hear it.”

He has no right to be _proud_ of Mr. Graves. He isn’t his parent or his teacher.

“So why did you ignore me when I wanted you to come celebrate with me?”

Credence can bear it no longer. “How could I?” he asks plaintively. “How would that have looked? Me coming to stay with you?”

A frown creases Mr. Graves’s face. “I don’t understand.”

Credence thinks of Chastity at thirteen, stomping her foot before Ma and getting a slap in return. He has the strangest urge to stamp his own foot now in the face of this obtuseness. He doesn’t think Mr. Graves would slap him, but he resists the urge anyway.

“People might have seen me entering and leaving your home, who would they have thought I was?”

“What does that matter? I could have said you were my brother or my friend, how were they to know either way?”

That only enrages Credence further and the anger emboldens him. “But I’m _not_ your brother, Mister Graves, I never have been! I’m not your friend either, I’m nothing more than your gardener. So if you don’t have a question for me about trees or flowerbeds, I would like to be released to return to my duties now, sir.”

Mr. Graves is clearly stunned by the outburst. His mouth hangs slack, his hands just as loose at his sides. Credence regrets his ferocity at once.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“You did.” Mr. Graves’s voice is tight. “You meant every word. Very well, you’re released to go back to your work. I won’t keep you any longer.”

“Mister Graves—”

But the man is already striding away. If Credence dared to put hands on him, he’d chase after and grab his shoulders, he’d _force_ him to turn around and then fall on his knees to beg his forgiveness.

He doesn’t. Credence just stands and watches him go.

Numbly, he returns home to change back into his gardening clothes. He finishes his work day in a daze—deaf to the birdsong he usually appreciates, blind to the colours of his flowers, ignorant of almost every action that he carries out mechanically while he replays his conversation with Mr. Graves over and over in his head and tries to come up with a better ending.

That night, Modesty helps him apply ointment to the scratches and stings littering his hands and wrists.

“Why didn’t you wear gloves?” she asks him sadly.

“I forgot them,” he lies.

There’s simply no way to explain to a child that he was heartsick enough to want to feel every thorn and every nettle.

 

* * *

 

Credence doesn’t _wake_ in the morning because he didn’t _sleep_ the night before. When the sun eventually begins to rise outside his window, shining in through his thin curtains, Credence decides that lying in bed any longer is a waste of time and he might as well rise too.

A few hours previous, after much fruitless tossing and turning, he had got out of bed and done something he hadn’t in some time: he sat and wrote a letter.

> _Dear Percival,_
> 
> _I hate the fact that I hurt you today. I hurt myself in penance afterward and it still didn’t feel like absolution._
> 
> _I hate when you refer to me as ‘brother’ because I want things from you that no brother should._
> 
> _I hate how much I do_ _want you. I hate the ceaseless burn of it, like the flames of Hell surging up around me for this unnatural desire._
> 
> _I hate that you are rich and I am poor. I hate that you are powerful and I am weak. I hate that magic is as familiar to you as breathing and I struggle with the most basic charms still._
> 
> _I hate that you live in another world and I am forced to inhabit this one._
> 
> _Finally, I hate that I can never send this letter to you._
> 
> _I hate so much, Percival, but know that however angrily I spoke to you today, I could never hate you._
> 
> _Yours,_
> 
> _Credence_

He casts a critical eye over the letter and finds the words and sentiment seem somehow more ridiculous now in the cold, hard light of the early dawn than they did in the dead of night. It’s no more ridiculous than all the other awkwardly-worded outpourings of his heart though, so Credence locks this letter away with the rest before he goes out to start work.

It’s a cool spring morning and a fine mist is suspended over the gardens. Credence loves this time—he loves the changing hues of the sky as the sun comes up fully, loves the solitude and silence whilst the manor house sleeps. On mornings like this, he feels like he could be the only person on the estate, the only person in the entire world, sometimes.

Today though, he is forcibly reminded that he is _not_ the only person in the world as the shadowy figure of a man walks across the grounds to meet him. His appearance may be inexplicable at this hour, but the identity of the figure is unmistakeable—Credence could no sooner fail to recognise Mr. Graves at fifty paces than he could his own reflection in the mirror at none.

“Credence,” Mr. Graves says by way of greeting when he reaches him.

“You’re up very early this morning, sir.”

Early enough that he isn’t even _dressed_ properly for the day, apparently. Mr. Graves is altogether too casual for Credence’s sanity in a loose white shirt and a creased pair of trousers that could well be the same ones he was wearing yesterday. Stubble coats his normally smooth cheeks and jaw and a good number of errant strands of hair have escaped from where they would usually be slicked back. Credence can’t fathom what he’s doing out here like this and it sets his nerves jangling.

Mr. Graves grimaces, pressing his thumb and fingers across both his eyes in exasperation before rubbing his hand down the length of his face. “Enough with the ‘sir’. Credence, it’s _me_ you’re talking to. It’s just you and me.”

“It’s been three years since I’ve seen you, Mister Graves. I didn’t want to be overly forward.”

“Overly forward? Since when has that mattered between us? Merlin’s beard, my father may be dead but I’ll be damned if I’m going to become ‘Mister Graves’ to you now. Please, call me Percival like you used to.”

And just like that he _is_ Percival to Credence again. It makes Credence almost dizzy to be here in front of him when he speaks like this. He’s missed Percival’s certainty and passion, how he can speak with such vehemence and yet still be kind with it. He’s missed _Percival_.

“I haven’t slept,” Percival goes on. His weariness bleeds through into the admission. “I _can’t_ sleep since everything you said yesterday, about us not being friends.”

“I’m sorry,” Credence says at once, the words tumbling out quickly in his eagerness to put things right between them. He can’t bear the thought that he’s the one responsible for Percival’s insomnia, for the dark circles under his eyes. He’s not worth that. “I’m so sorry, I should never have spoken so harshly to you.”

“Don’t be sorry.” Percival shakes his head, firm. “I’ve only ever encouraged you to speak your mind around me; I can hardly complain when you do just that. But I couldn’t sleep for wanting to make sure you know that you’ve _always_ been my friend, Credence, no matter our differences. You’re my friend still, even if I’m not yours.”

Percival’s heartfelt words cut him as much as they comfort him. They’re more than he deserves but _still_ Credence would ask for more. Why could he not just be satisfied with being Percival’s friend? His Ma is right about him: he truly is wicked.

“Of course you’re my friend,” Credence tells him softly. “I really didn’t mean what I said yesterday, please believe that. It’s just… it’s been so long since I’ve seen you. I didn’t think you would still care about me after all that time.”

“You were the one who stopped writing,” Percival reminds him, but it sounds less like a criticism and more like a simple, honest expression of disappointment. “And why? Because you thought I was sick of hearing from you? I’m beginning to wonder if you know me at all.”

 _That_ makes Credence’s heart pound with anxiety. He doesn’t want Percival to think that, not when he has always prided himself on how well he _does_ know Percival Graves. Beyond what he’s been told in letters, he may not know much about his life in the city, or about his work, or his place in the magical world, but he knows Percival’s family and where he comes from. He knows Percival’s foundations: his earliest dreams and his oldest scars and his deepest fears.

Credence is about to stammer his way through his excuses, ready to give an explanation of his feelings of inadequacy when Percival speaks again.

“Would you come with me for a bit?” he asks. “There’s something I want to show you.”

Percival leads him all the way to the mansion. He ignores Credence’s protests that he should remove his boots at the threshold and takes him straight through to the door to what Credence knows is his bedroom. Credence hasn’t set foot in the room since he was a child, in a time when this door was always open to him when Percival was home from Ilvermorny in the summer.

Now, as an adult, the mere idea of being in there alone with Percival is enough to make him blush.

Completely unaware of Credence’s embarrassment, Percival pushes open the door and heads inside.

Credence’s face only grows more heated when he follows and sees Percival’s unmade four-poster bed. The intimacy in seeing his crumpled wine-red sheets and dented pillow is enough to strike Credence breathless. Percival favours the left side of the bed, it seems.

He has to drag his gaze away when he realises Percival is brandishing something he wants Credence to look at.

“Here,” Percival says, a stack of envelopes in his hand. The torn edges at the top make it clear they’ve been opened. “Look, I kept every one.”

Through Percival’s fingers, Credence recognises his own spidery handwriting on the envelope at the front of the pile. His heart turns over in his chest.

“So did I,” he says.

Wonderingly, he goes to Percival and takes the letters. He traces a finger over the indentations his pen left when he wrote _Mr. Percival Graves_ on the envelope and his mouth curves into the memory of the smile he used to wear doing it.

It was wholly unnecessary to address his letters, given how Eunomia understood ‘take this to Percival’ better than any other instruction. He spies her perched in the corner of the room, one large grey wing covering her face. At least _she’s_ had the sense to get some sleep overnight, unlike the pair of them.

Credence’s fingertips travel over the paper to what appears to be a scorch mark. He looks up at Percival with a frown.

“I had that one in my jacket when I was hit by a curse,” Percival explains.

A cold feeling sweeps through Credence just hearing that, like thawing ice dripping sickly down his insides. Stuck at the mansion and unable to do anything about it, Credence always avoided thinking too much about how dangerous Percival’s job as an Auror really was. He was glad when his promotion to Director meant less time in the field, even though Percival’s misgivings had been like audible grumbling coming off the page of one of his later letters that Credence didn’t reply to. Or rather, one he replied to but didn’t ever send to him.

The chill is soon chased away by a burst of warmth when the other part of Percival’s statement impacts him: Percival had carried one of his letters on his person when he was working. So they genuinely _had_ meant something to him then.

Credence could regret every letter he didn’t send in light of that, but when he no longer had the intention of sending them, it made him free to write things he could never actually tell Percival anyway. He turns the bundle over in his hands a few times, wondering what he could possibly say next.

“You’re hurt,” Percival says suddenly, taking the choice away from him. Credence looks down at his hands and realises his playing with the envelopes has drawn Percival’s keen eyes to the scratches he’d picked up in his weeding work yesterday.

“A few cuts and scrapes,” he says, dismissive.

Percival comes over to his side and stands uncomfortably close. He takes the letters from Credence and places them on top of his bureau with care. “They look bad,” he says, instantly turning his attention back on Credence’s hands again.

“They’ll heal,” Credence breathes, quite unable to speak any louder with Percival crowding him like this.

“Please, allow me.”

Percival gently takes Credence’s right hand in his left, then passes his dominant hand across Credence’s upturned palm. The stings cease their itching at once, replaced by a cool, tingling sensation that dissipates after a few seconds. The thin red scratches disappear and leave only pale unblemished skin in their wake.

With a frown of concentration, Percival turns Credence’s hand in his and makes the same motion to heal the back of it before dealing with the left hand too.

All the while, Credence stands stock-still, mesmerised as he watches Percival attend to him. He’s afraid to move, afraid to even _breathe_ in case he (literally) breaks the spell. Conflicting wants writhe like snakes inside him. He wants, bizarrely, _humiliatingly_ , to cry in the face of such tenderness and focus from the one person he most craves those things from. He wants to run from the room and lock himself away until he’s ready to see Percival without that first awful urge flaring up.

He wants to take off his shirt and beg Percival to remove every scar and make him as new again. He wants to ask if Percival’s mouth can’t do the same as his hands.

Credence wrenches his hand out of Percival’s grip and curls both of them into his own chest before he can do something irreversible like place them on Percival’s neck or his shoulders or his waist.

Percival’s mouth opens at the interruption but he says nothing right away. He looks as dazed as Credence feels. Credence bites his lip at the thought that healing him had caused Percival to expend a lot of energy or effort.

“Did I hurt you?” Percival asks after a moment. “Healing spells aren’t exactly my forte. I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t,” Credence assures him. “You couldn’t.”

Percival smiles, but the tilt of his mouth could never be described as happy. “I definitely could. Don’t you ever let me.”

A wild thought flits through Credence then that—God forgive him—even pain dealt by Percival’s hand might feel akin to pleasure to him.

“You really should wear gloves,” Percival says. He turns and goes to his wardrobe, crouching down to open a chest in the bottom of it. “I have just the thing.”

While he rummages around, Credence doesn’t tell him that he has fully functional gloves for gardening and that he just neglected to wear them yesterday. He wants whatever Percival is going to give him too badly.

“Aha!” Percival presents him with a pair of dark brown gloves. When Credence takes them, he finds they have an odd scaly pattern. He’s never seen a material like it.

“Dragon-hide,” Percival says as Credence strokes over the hard ridges. “I used them in Herbology at Ilvermorny. If they can protect me from Fanged Geraniums, I’m sure they’ll stand up to anything we have here. Oh, pass them back a second, would you?”

Credence does, careful not to let their hands brush. He’s only just beginning to get over all the touching earlier—he doesn’t want a relapse.

Percival takes his wand from the nightstand on the left side of his bed and moves it against each glove a few times. “A charm for warmth in winter and to stop you sweating too much in them in summer,” he says with a smile, “and another for permanently soft hands.”

He’s as thoughtful as Credence remembers him to be. Credence’s first instinct is to refuse the gift, but he always wants anything of Percival’s and he can already hear Percival protesting that the gloves are only sitting idle at the bottom of his wardrobe.

“Thank you,” Credence says, trying to infuse the words with all the sincerity he feels.

“I hope they’ll be useful to you.”

Percival looks far more relaxed now than he did when he first met Credence this morning. Credence himself feels at peace when they’re interacting more like they did the last time Percival was at Graves House.

“I should get back to work,” Credence tells him ruefully. He doesn’t want their conversation to end, but he has no reason to linger. Then a thought occurs to him: “What about you?” he asks. “How are you getting to work from here?”

Percival shakes his head with an expression of supreme displeasure. “I could Apparate from here, but I’m on an enforced leave of absence. The President has been waiting for an excuse, since she knew I had a lot of leave built up that I wasn’t taking. Unfortunately, my father was too well-known in our community for news of his death not to reach her. So I’ll be around for at least the next week before she’ll even consider allowing me back.”

A week of Percival on the estate full-time. Credence can hardly understand himself when his first thought is _too much_ and the one right behind it is _not enough._

“So will you go back to live in the city after that?”

Percival looks at him for a long moment before he answers. “I don’t know,” he says, brow furrowing like he’s surprised himself with the reply. His expression softens again and he smiles, though his eyes are cast down almost bashfully in a way Credence isn’t used to from him. “I may well find reasons to stay.”

Credence squashes the immediate response that comes to mind— _I hope so_. He can’t say it. It would reveal too much and it would be wrong of him to try and influence Percival on the matter, even if he could.

“I really do have to get back to work,” he says. “Thank you again for the gloves.”

Percival has barely got out a “don’t mention it” before Credence is spinning on his heel and rushing down the stairs, through the hallways, and back out into the gardens. The gust of cool wind that meets his flushed cheeks outside is a welcome relief after how stifling the atmosphere was in Percival’s room.

He might _stay,_ Credence thinks giddily as he prunes roses later on in his new gloves, hands the perfect temperature for once.

His heart is light for the remainder of the day while he sows seeds and checks on the progress of his bulbs. The hardy snowdrops, crocuses, and tulips are all faring well despite a few frosty nights and they’re already bringing much needed colour to the grounds after a long winter. The magnificent rhododendrons are flowering, along with his camellias, and blossom in varied shades of pink and white covers the trees.

Spring has arrived and the garden is coming to life all around him. Credence desperately hopes Percival appreciates the sight even half as much as he does. He hopes that this simple, natural beauty might provide at least one reason for him to put down his own roots here.


	2. May, 1937

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took longer than I thought it would, but here's the next part!

_May, 1937_

A week passes and Credence barely sees Percival in that time.

Percival has been busy getting his late father’s affairs in order, sorting through what should be kept and what should be thrown out or given away. Credence suspects he’s being quite ruthless about the whole affair, given his complicated relationship with his father.

His intuition proves correct. In the evenings over supper, Ma and Chastity speak in derisive tones about Mr. Graves’s desecration of his father’s house. They make many references to his brooding silences and his step-mother’s worsening drink problem.

As he works in the grounds, Credence finds himself staring up at the main house more and more, looking to the numerous windows as if he might spot Percival within one of them and somehow be able to divine his current state of mind from such a glimpse. It’s an irrational notion, of course, but he can’t help himself. The idea of Percival surrounded by memories of the father he hated and growing more ill-tempered by the day makes Credence’s hands flutter about with helplessness if he thinks on it for too long.

Surely he won’t stay now. He’ll return to the city where a man like him belongs as soon as he can. Why would he stay in the house he was once so desperate to leave?

Credence’s heart grows heavy, but he tries not to let the gardens suffer for his gloomy mood. A lack of love in his work will be reflected when the splendour of the grounds diminishes, and he won’t let that happen. He might not be able to offer Percival any solace at this time, but he can prune shrubs and cut hedges and plant his petunias and all the other half-hardy annual flowers that couldn’t safely go in the ground until after the last frost.

He’s busy getting these spring-time jobs done when Percival comes to find him one day. A shadow falls over him while he’s taking cuttings.

“I needed some air,” Percival tells him by way of greeting, as though he needed an excuse to be out in the grounds of his own estate, as though he needed to explain himself to _Credence_ of all people.

“There’s plenty here,” Credence says, tilting his head to squint up at Percival towering over him as he kneels in the earth with his plants for company. He smiles and hopes there aren’t any streaks of dirt on his face.

Percival smiles back and then drops into a squat to be more level with Credence.

“Mind your clothes,” Credence says, almost automatically.

Percival chuckles at his fussing. “There’s magic for that, as you well know. Really, it’s strange to see someone gardening the No-Maj way. It looks so time consuming.”

“It is,” Credence agrees, “but I didn’t learn enough from your father to be able to do it any other way so… this is the way it has to be.”

“Well, you do a great job regardless. The gardens are as incredible as I remember them.”

The heat of the sun radiating down from on high is a welcome excuse for the heat suddenly suffusing Credence’s face. “Thank you.”

Percival goes quiet for a moment, apparently content to just watch the movements of Credence’s hands busy at work. Credence is certainly content to be watched, even if his pulse is throbbing in his too-hot ears under the attention. He’s always loved being the subject of that gentle, thoughtful gaze.

“What _did_ the old man teach you?” Percival asks next. “Anything that would prove useful in the real world?”

Credence smiles at that, an ironic twist to his mouth. _The ‘real’ world._ They define that differently, he believes.

 _This_ is the real world to Credence, one where his hands collect calluses and scratches and dirt from using them to encourage something to grow from nothing. There’s magic in that as much as there is in Percival’s softer hands that have always been capable of rearranging the physical world around him as he pleases.

“Charms, mainly,” Credence says. The words are mild—he isn’t angry with Percival for something he can’t help. “Summoning, scouring, levitating. That sort of thing.”

“Summoning is quite tricky. You must have been a good student to learn that from my buffoon of a father without any other help.”

“He wasn’t a great teacher,” Credence admits. “Mainly I would read your old spell-books and experiment in the conservatory where I couldn’t do any harm while he watched through the windows.”

Percival laughs heartily and Credence laughs too, pleased to have elicited such a reaction.

“Where’s your wand?” Percival asks. “I want to know what kind you got in the end. I wish I could have been there to get it with you.”

“Oh, um.” Credence blushes again, thinking of his beloved wand lying in the same drawer as all of his letters at home. He doesn’t usually bring it out with him to work, preferring to keep it safely locked away. “I never got my own. I hope you don’t mind, I’ve been—I mean, your father said it would be okay if I used your old one.”

Percival’s excited grin shrinks to something softer, almost marvelling. Credence’s face only gets warmer, just seeing that expression on him. “You used mine?” he repeats. “And it worked for you?”

“Perfectly.”

The late Mr. Graves had been surprised too. He’d given the wand to Credence as an interim measure at the start of their lessons, pressing the wood into Credence’s shaking hand as if it was nothing more than an ordinary bit of cedar. It was as far from that to Credence as it was possible to be. This was _Percival’s_ wand he was holding, once his most treasured possession and an extension of his own arm before his father insisted he needed a newer, better one when he reached his majority.

Credence can still remember the argument that ensued over that. He vividly remembers putting his arms around Percival and telling him with a fierce child’s certainty that everything was going to be okay while Percival shook with unspent rage after giving in to his father. It’s the same comfort Credence has yearned to give him for days now as an adult.

“I used to love that thing,” Percival says, gaze far off and brimming with nostalgia. He draws his own wand from inside his jacket, the same sleek ebony rod Credence remembers him getting, the one with the silver handle and mother of pearl inlay. “Not as fancy as this, but I swear to this day it was just as good if not better. I think that’s what made me so keen to step up in my wandless magic—I really wanted to spite the old bastard.”

As if to demonstrate, Percival tucks his wand back into the folds of his clothing and summons Credence’s trowel into his hand with a smile.

There’s very little that’s more beautiful to Credence than the way Percival uses his hands to effortlessly channel the magic within him. There’s so much elegance in the stretch of his fingers, so much power in the curl of his wrists. Credence is still struck to his core when he watches him perform even the most basic of spells without words or wand. Even if he did perfect the ability out of spite, Credence supposes that’s one thing to be grateful to Percival’s father for, if nothing else.

“I’m glad my old wand is getting some use,” Percival says, passing the trowel back to Credence. “I can think of no one else I would want wielding it.”

“Thank you.”

Credence is relieved beyond measure to have Percival’s blessing to continue using the wand he cherishes so much. He’ll never forget the jet of fire he created when he realised his thumb and fingertips almost fit the exact same smooth, worn-down prints left by Percival after he’d spent the whole night before his first lesson fretting that nothing would happen at all when he held a wand again.

It was a total accident when it happened the _first_ time. One day when Percival was visiting, Credence happened to pick up his current wand to hand it to him just as he opened his mouth to ask for it. Percival had beamed and extended his palm and Credence—just getting to grips with his burgeoning feelings for Percival then at the age of sixteen—had somehow conjured a burst of sparks the colour of the grass underneath them that made Percival’s eyes light up with exhilaration.

In the present, those same eyes just watch Credence at work again for a while. When Credence glances up from the movements of his own hands as he carefully cuts stems, he finds Percival’s are fiddling with a few nearby blades of grass.

It’s highly unusual for Percival to _fidget_. It seems wrong, somehow, to see him so unguarded.

“What’s on your mind?” Credence asks him, keeping his tone light. Non-invasive. He doesn’t want Percival to think he’s prying.

Percival sighs, a long gusty exhalation that makes Credence frown in concern. “I’m thinking about renting out my place in the city and moving back here on a permanent basis. Maybe even just selling it altogether.”

Done with his cuttings, Credence looks up and gives Percival his full attention. If anything, he’d prefer to have a distraction for his hands after what Percival just said, but if he cuts any more away from these plants there’ll be none left.

“Why?” Credence can’t help but ask.

He really thought Percival would decide to do the opposite. It’s a surprise to hear him say he _wants_ to move back into Graves House.

Percival drops his gaze, playing with the grass again. “To tell you the truth, Credence, I was lonely in the city. I don’t think I realised how much until I came back here and there were just… so many people around. Work keeps me busy and I see people there, but I have to keep a certain distance as Director. For the last year, I think I’ve been on my own almost every evening. It wears you down, after a while.”

Credence is speechless in the face of that admission. How could someone like Percival be so alone? He’s interesting and intelligent, well-intentioned and quick-witted. If those things _weren’t_ enough—and they would be for Credence—he’s also just an absurdly attractive man, someone people would surely want to be around even if for no other reason than the handsomeness of his face. How could he not have hordes of friends and admirers to keep him company?

This new knowledge that Percival was lonely is like a wound on Credence’s own soul, a spreading sympathetic hurt taken on as if he could share the burden of it with him, as if he could lessen it in some way. He’d take all of Percival’s pains if it left him with none, he thinks.

“I’m sorry to hear it,” Credence says. He mumbles the words, aware of how insufficient they are.

Percival waves a dismissive hand, but Credence won’t let it be swept away that easily. “Don’t worry about it,” he says. “Of course, it helps that you’re here, too.”

“Me?” Credence feels a good proportion of his blood rush into his face and tips his head down to hide it.

“Yes, you,” Percival says. “I missed you while I was away. I can hardly believe how much you’ve changed.”

“I don’t think I’ve changed very much at all.”

Therein lies the problem, really. Credence still views himself as a foolish child, tripping over himself in his fawning over Percival. Even now, his cheeks are stained with a juvenile blush in front of him.

“That’s because you don’t see yourself as I do.”

Credence looks up again to meet Percival’s eyes. He can’t help himself, he has to see Percival’s face when he’s saying things like that.

“And how do you see me?” he asks, heart racing at his own boldness, at his imagining of what Percival might say back.

Percival just regards him for a long, drawn-out minute and Credence almost ends up _pleading_ for him to just say something. Percival smiles then, but there’s something off about it. It doesn’t sit right on his features, as poor a fit as the shirt on Credence’s back. It looks like a lie.

“You’re too big for me to carry about on my shoulders now,” Percival says eventually. “That’s for sure.”

The lack of a proper answer and the call-back to his childhood both make Credence inexplicably irritated with him. He _hates_ the feeling and the guilt that emerges along with it, which only worsens his mood. “I have been for years,” he says hotly.

“Grumpy,” Percival notes, voice teasing. “Just like when I used to put you up there. What would you always say at first? ‘Put me down, Percy, put me down!’”

“Because I didn’t like it.”

Credence stands up then and Percival does the same, mirroring him. His eyes gleam with amusement. He doesn’t seem to have caught on to just how much Credence is annoyed with this turn in their conversation yet, which is even more frustrating in and of itself.

“Are you sure?” Percival asks.

“Of course I’m—”

All of a sudden, Percival is in front of him and his hands grab at Credence’s sides. “Come on,” he says through laughter, boyish and carefree. “Let’s see if I can still lift you.”

Credence yelps at the unexpected touch, instinctively darting out of the way of Percival’s hands. “What are you—”

Percival lunges at him again and when Credence steps back to avoid him, he trips over his gardening tools beneath their feet. As he falls, Percival collides with him and they both hit the ground with twin grunts as the air is knocked out of their lungs.

Credence ends up on his back with Percival’s full weight on top of him. Percival is breathing hard, hands flat on the grass on either side of Credence’s shoulders. His eyes are vague and unfocused as he looks down at Credence as if in shock over what had just happened. Credence shuts his own eyes and turns his face to one side, unable to believe how much of a parody this is of something he actually wants. His stomach is full of crawling shame and an awful hatred for the indignity of it all.

“Get off me,” he says, opening his eyes again. “Percival, please, get off.”

At once, Percival braces his hands against the ground and levers himself up and off of Credence’s body. He flops down into the grass beside Credence, still panting. The sound makes Credence’s heart jump in a way that _should_ be pleasant but feels anything but now.

Ignoring the pain in his back from where he fell, Credence gets stiffly to his feet. “I should get on with my work,” he bites out. “I’ve been remiss, letting myself get distracted for so long during the working day.”

Percival rises to his feet too, all smiles and teasing gone. He’s scarcely looked more somber, in fact. “Wait,” he says, “I’m sorry, I don’t—I don’t know what came over me. I thought that would make you laugh. Credence, please, I don’t want you to leave angry with me like this.”

“I’m not angry,” Credence says, even as his clipped tone betrays him.

He’s not angry with Percival, he’s just angry with _himself_. He’s furious at his own weakness and his pathetic unrequited love that spoils any interaction they have. Whatever he might have said to Percival last week, they’re not friends. He can’t laugh and joke around with Percival without _this_ happening, so how can they be friends?

He lets the guilt he feels extinguish the burning of his ire. Then he can soften his words. “I’m not angry.”

“Let me make it up to you,” Percival insists.

Credence lets out a laugh, immediately wishing it had come out less bitter and more reassuring. His eyes sting. “If I’m not angry then you don’t have to make anything up to me. I just really do have to get on, I have a lot to do today.”

The look Percival gives him clearly says he doesn’t believe that, but he nods anyway. “I’ll stop bothering you,” he says.

That’s an impression Percival just can’t keep and Credence shakes his head adamantly. “You aren’t bothering me. You aren’t at fault here, it’s me that should be apologising.”

“I disagree.” Percival twitches a small smile at him and gestures towards the house. “But I should be getting back too.”

Feeling queasy, Credence nods a goodbye before Percival walks away from him with slumped shoulders. The dejection in his posture makes Credence even more nauseated and an acrid taste rises in his mouth, coating his tongue and sticking in the gaps between his teeth. He almost _wants_ to throw up. He wants to force it, wants to expel the vileness that churns in him and makes him spit venom.

He chokes once when the threat of sickness creeps up under his breastbone and enters his throat.

Nothing comes out.

 

* * *

 

Ma is always crueler than usual on Sunday mornings. Anxious to get to church, she rushes them all through washing and dressing every week with a raised voice and ready hand. She can’t abide idleness on any day, let alone the Sabbath.

The skin of Credence’s left cheek is reddened and smarting from a slap he received for delaying when he and his family leave their cottage on this particular morning to find Percival outside the house.

He has his back to them, head tilted back while he looks up at the sky, perhaps watching the clouds drift in the breeze. Credence’s cheek burns more fiercely still at the sight of his broad shoulders, emphasised as they are by the way he has his hands clasped behind him.

Percival turns around at the sound of the cottage door closing. He’s well-dressed as always, although a bit more subdued than normal in a black suit without any dramatic flairs or embellishments. The cut and material of his clothing are still fine enough to put Credence’s washed-out Sunday best to shame though.

“Good morning, Miss Barebone,” Percival greets with an incline of his head that Credence can only think of as regal. “Chastity, Modesty.” He meets everyone’s eyes steadily as he addresses them in turn, but when his eyes flick to Credence last, they linger on his cheek instead and his face takes on a frown. “Credence.”

“Mister Graves,” Ma says, unable to keep the surprise from her tone. Credence can hear the slightly better concealed layer beneath that holds irritation. “We were just about to head to church.”

“I realise,” Percival says. “Forgive my intrusion, but I wondered if I might accompany you this morning.”

Ma gapes at him. Credence does too. “Accompany us to—to church? Are you a believer, sir?”

The coolness in her voice says she plainly will not accept it if he says that he is. Credence has heard Ma call Percival and his family—and all magic-users, for that matter—‘Godless heathens’ enough times to know she’s wondering why on earth such a heathen might wish to go to church with them. Whatever conclusion she comes to, he knows it will be one that attributes the most nefarious of intentions to Percival. She’ll think he’s trying to corrupt or convert them to wickedness in some way.

“I must admit that I’m not, but my sainted mother was.” He smiles as he says it and his words are even, but they still give Credence a pang. Percival rarely talks about his mother. “She’s buried in the cemetery at the very church you go to. I thought I would seek a period of quiet reflection there and pay my respects at the same time, if you’ll permit me to join you.”

It would be uncharitable for Ma to refuse him. Mind ablaze with uncertainty about whether he _wants_ her to refuse anyway or not, Credence watches her undergo a brief struggle of her own with the inclination of her true nature and the teachings of the religion she hides behind.

“Of course,” she says eventually. “We would welcome the company, although we must be going now or we’ll be late.”

Percival bows his head again. “My apologies for holding you up. Please, lead the way.”

Credence suspects Ma can’t help the condescending sniff she gives as she does just that, placing herself at the front of their group. She takes Modesty’s hand and pulls her along with her, despite Modesty’s difficulty in keeping up on her shorter legs.

Chastity looks uncomfortable, features pinched and strained. Her hands smooth over her skirt before she hastens to take up her own place with Ma and Modesty, leaving Credence to walk with Percival.

They fall into step beside each other with an ease they can’t always seem to enjoy when they converse. Their feet find a matching rhythm in no time and Credence becomes Percival’s shadow, his limbs moving in tandem with Percival’s as they walk.

“Have you forgiven me yet for my clumsiness the other day?” Percival asks him when a wide enough gap forms between them and the girls, enough that they won’t be overheard.

“I already told you there was nothing to forgive.”

Percival hums—whether in agreement or doubt, Credence can’t tell. They walk in silence after that, the only sound between them the crunching of their feet over gravel. It’s punctuated by the whisper of Percival extending a hand at times to trail his fingertips through the overgrown tangle of varied leaves that enclose the pathway. The bushes and trees overlooking them get wilder the further they get from the estate, away from the ordered grounds that Credence maintains.

Percival’s mouth bears a gentle curve as his hand meets the foliage and Credence’s own smile is irrepressible in the face of it. Percival is enchanting, he thinks, beyond charming in his simple happiness.

Credence falls in love with him again right there and then, in seconds, as quickly and as unhesitatingly as he has every single time before. Truly though, he’s never fallen _out_ of love with him since the first time.

The journey to the church seems at once interminably long and unbelievably short with Percival a distraction at his side. Credence loses the majority of the distance—he loses inches in the sway of Percival’s arms, whole feet in the line of his jaw, numerous _yards_ in the sweep of his eyelashes that glint in the sunlight on the horizon they’re walking into.

The journey to the church only takes twelve minutes and yet Credence lives an entire lifetime within them.

“What about you?” Percival asks him suddenly, clearly carrying on a conversation that started in his head.

“What about me?”

“Are you a ‘believer’?”

“Oh.” Credence considers his answer, trying to find a way to articulate his complex interpretation of what it is to have faith. “I don’t believe in God,” he says at length, keeping his voice low. This confession is for Percival’s ears only. “Not the way Ma and the girls do. I don’t believe in one all-powerful being who has the flaw of caring whether we worship him or not.”

“What do you believe in then, if anything?”

Percival’s face is open, non-judgemental. He seems to just be genuinely interested in whatever Credence has to say on the matter. It’s not something he’s ever questioned Credence on before, despite how long they’ve known each other.

“I believe… I just believe there’s something bigger than us. Something that sees fit to give some of us magic and others none at all, because there must be a reason for that. And I think there has to be something that inspires us to more acts of kindness than acts of cruelty, overall.”

Percival smiles at him then, as tenderly as he had at the leaves he swept a whimsical hand through, and Credence’s feet lose their careful synchronicity with his. “I think that might just be you,” he says with a laugh. “I think kindness might just be your innate virtue, Credence. It’s not one everyone possesses.”

Credence swallows hard, throat narrowing as he says, “You do.”

That earns him a playful nudge of Percival’s shoulder, another precious smile. “I hope so.”

“What do you believe?” Credence asks him when the village church comes into view, the grey fieldstone building with its open belfry and the weathervane above it as familiar to him as Graves House is. “I take it you don’t believe in anything.”

“I believe only in love and liberty,” Percival answers. His voice is lofty, but there’s a laugh hidden in it and the shape of his lips has turned wry. “As all men should.”

A rosebud of warmth blooms in Credence’s chest just hearing the word ‘love’ from his mouth, vines of it shooting all the way out to his fingers and toes.

It rings in his head for the whole sermon that follows, pulses within him as sure and steady as his heart, _love, love_ , while the Minister standing before him preaches a bastardised version of it, one with conditions and caveats.

On his right, Ma leans forward in her seat, enraptured by the Minister’s words. To his left at the end of the aisle, Percival slouches in the pew with his arms folded, a posture Credence never thought he would see from him. His chin is tucked into his chest and his eyebrows are furrowed. He doesn’t like what he’s hearing.

Credence entertains rapture of a different kind to Ma as he watches the rise and fall of Percival’s chest, listens for the scornful huffs through his nose every time the Minister says the word ‘sin’. He revels in the touching of their thighs where Percival has spread his legs in a gesture of total contempt for the proceedings that Ma will be raging over for days to come.

_“Amen.”_

Credence is a beat behind the congregation every time they’re called upon to participate.

The sermon ends, people disperse. Ma’s fury with Percival is a tangible thing in the air between them as they all stand to leave and the two of them look at one another, Credence caught awkwardly in the middle. Her eyes burn with zeal while Percival’s are as mild as ever.

“What an interesting perspective,” he says. His face may be placid, but the sarcasm drips off his tongue.

Ma’s hands reach out to take hold of both Chastity and Modesty’s shoulders, the girls flanking her with matching expressions of immense disapproval. “I suspected these moral teachings might not fit your lifestyle, Mister Graves.”

Percival smiles at her, and it’s a sharp, hollow thing to Credence’s eyes. “I make my own morals,” he says. “For instance, I think that abusing those in your care is an unforgivable crime that demands the highest punishment. If your God can’t be relied upon to intervene in such a circumstance, I know I would be more than happy to.”

His delivery of the words is light, but the threat is unmistakable and, as he talks, Percival looks to Credence meaningfully.

Credence has always strived to hide the beatings from him, over the years. Ma had too, wise enough to keep any lasting marks off his face and hands. She hadn’t reckoned on Percival arriving this morning when she slapped him.

He knows Percival has always suspected something untoward about their family dynamic, going so far as to admit to Credence when they were younger that his own father had a heavy hand at times, as though sharing that might prompt Credence to be honest in return.

It should have, but it didn’t. He used to see Percival’s glorious defiance with his father, heard his shouting and raging on many an occasion, and he was in awe of him as someone strong and courageous enough to stand up for himself when presented with an oppressor. Credence’s cowering was unspeakably shameful, by comparison. Admitting his mother’s actions would mean exposing his own and he found he couldn’t do it, no matter how much his back hurt, no matter how he longed for even a fraction of that strength and courage to be extended to him.

At least it was only a slap Percival found evidence of today. That’s inconsequential, in the scale of things, and it’s been Ma’s reprimand of choice for a long time since he started to learn magic and she became more afraid of him. It’s not like she’s flogging him every week, he thinks, so really, there’s nothing for Percival to be concerned about.

Still. It’s wonderful to hear him talk this way.

“Only God can judge, Mister Graves,” Ma says quietly. “He knows all the secrets of our hearts.”

“I refuse to be judged for anything in mine.”

Percival's voice echoes in the vacated church, all his power and passion thrumming in the statement. It stirs Credence more than anything he's ever heard in this place before.

“We should be going,” Ma says, blithe, instead of carrying on the conversation.

Percival nods. “I’ll go pay my respects to my mother, as I said I would. Perhaps you’ll remain, Credence, and accompany me on the way back?”

Credence startles at being addressed unexpectedly while watching their stand-off, shaking himself to clear his stupor. “Of—of course.”

With one final disgusted look at the pair of them, Ma leads Modesty and Chastity away in a hurry. His sisters both look back over their shoulders as they go and Credence can tell they’re astonished by Percival’s attitude, Modesty especially. They’re unused to hearing anyone talk back to their mother like he just did.

The cemetery is nearly empty when he and Percival walk outside to it, save for one older gentleman kneeling before a headstone with his hat clutched in his hands. It’s a relatively big churchyard, but Percival seems to almost glide across the length of it, his footsteps swift and certain as he leads Credence to one particular grave without looking back at him.

“Here,” he says on a sigh when they reach it, the old man a blur in the distance now.

Percival stoops to brush away some weeds from the base of the headstone. He doesn’t physically touch them—he uses a little burst of magic to do it, seeing as no one is around to witness.

The headstone is much simpler than Credence was expecting, knowing firsthand how wealthy the Graves family is. It’s in perfect condition though, pristine, free from the moss and lichen and grime that covers its neighbours. Credence expects a charm is responsible for that, or maybe Percival just visits more often than he might think. Maybe it’s both.

Despite its cleanliness, the headstone is still just an unassuming grey slab bearing the inscription:

_Temperance Graves_

_1882 - 1915_

There’s no other engraving below the name and dates, no acknowledgement that the person buried here was ‘beloved’ or a ‘wife’ or ‘mother’.

Credence has always known that Percival’s mother died before he came to the estate, but he hadn’t realised or ever been told how long before. She died just a year after Credence was born. Percival would only have been eleven at the time.

A lump rises to Credence’s throat and he presses a hand over his chest when an ache beyond belief mounts up underneath it for a young boy that he can never go back and comfort.

“She shouldn’t be here,” Percival says, standing again and staring down at the grave. A sudden breeze agitates his unbuttoned jacket, teases out one strand of his hair from the rest to fall down beside his ear. “She should have gone home to England, like she wanted. At least he did have the courtesy to bother with burying her by a church, even if it’s one whose ‘moral teachings’ she would have despised.”

“She was from England?”

“Oh,” Percival says, as if struck by something. “I forget I haven’t told you as much about her as I think I have. She was from a prominent pureblood family there, they wanted her to come here and marry my father for his money and the prestige of the Graves name. I’m sure she’d have stayed where she was and married for love though, if she could have.”

Just hearing that makes the pain in Credence’s heart grow until it’s near unbearable. Both with sadness for a woman he never knew and because the story makes him realise something about Percival. “Will you have to make some kind of… alliance, like that?”

Percival laughs far too loudly. His mirth is jarring, considering their surroundings. “No,” he says, “no, I won’t be getting married. My bloodline will end with me, if I can help it.”

It should be a relief to hear that Percival has no upcoming nuptials planned, but Credence frowns at the lifetime of solitude his dismissal of marriage implies. Seeing Percival married off would mean heartbreak for him, but never seeing him happy and complete in that way would surely be worse.

He opens his mouth to ask why not, to insist—in spite of his every selfish instinct not to—that he find someone to share his life with, but Percival speaks first.

“Do you notice she has a name like yours?”

Temperance: the virtue of restraint. Credence could hardly help noticing. Names like that are unusual outside of his own family, after all.

“Do you ever wonder about your true parentage?” Percival asks him then, before he can formulate an answer. “Why you have magic? You must do.”

“Less and less, as I’ve got older,” Credence answers truthfully. “It’s not something I can pursue, and my life is what it is now. The name I was given is apt. I’m satisfied with my lot.”

“Are you? Are you satisfied being a gardener here, living with your vicious hag of a mother? Why _don’t_ you join the magical world, Credence? You could go off and study properly; I have contacts in England if you still want to go there. You could even become a Herbologist, if you wanted. Something not too dissimilar to what you do now.”

Panic floods Credence just talking about this. His hands shake and his pulse quickens. “What about my sisters? Am I meant to just leave them behind?”

He wants so badly to ask: ‘Am I meant to just leave _you_ behind too?’

He’s not sure he could bear that, not with Percival back living on the estate now. He’ll return to work next week, but he’ll still be around in the mornings, evenings, and on weekends, which is more than enough for Credence.

And he _does_ like being a gardener. He likes what he does and he doesn’t have all these grand, fanciful aspirations. Is that so wrong?

“I would watch over them here,” Percival says, “you have my word on that.”

It’s a typically generous offer, but Percival’s generosity is always devalued by the limited viewpoint granted by his privilege. There’s little he could do to protect the girls from Ma while he lives in the safety and security of his _mansion_ and he doesn’t seem to realise that. It’s not his fault, but it tears at Credence’s soul like nothing else.

They’re just so different.

“Have dinner with me this evening,” Percival says, persisting. “We can talk more about it.”

Credence shakes his head. “You can’t solve everything in my life for me. I don’t want you to, either.”

“Have dinner with me anyway,” Percival says at once, the words rushed in a way that makes Credence’s head spin. “We can talk about anything you want.”

His whole being screams for him to just say ‘yes’ and go along with it all, to be swept off his feet by every offer Percival makes, but— “I can’t,” he says, “please, stop asking for things I can’t give. I can’t sit at a table with you, I’m your _gardener_ , Percival.”

“I thought you said we were friends.”

It’s pure anguish, looking at Percival’s face as he says that. “We are, but you have to understand—” Credence stops. This is a terrible setting for this conversation. He can hardly believe he’s beginning to raise his voice like this _here_ , it’s so disrespectful. “Please, let’s not argue over your mother’s grave.”

Percival looks down at the headstone and suddenly seems to remember himself. Where they are. He looks back to Credence with dull eyes, the spark that had lit them just a minute ago as he invited Credence to dinner as unreachable as the bottom of the ocean.

“Fine,” he says flatly. “I’m ready to head back now anyway.”

The walk home lasts for the same eternity as their journey to the church did. This time though, Credence can’t lose one inch of distance or one second of time in the joy of being near Percival. Instead, he’s trapped in the agony of their terse silence, broken only by the curt, one-word answers Percival gives his fumbling attempts to start conversation again. The tension is visible in his spine, but worse than that is the misery etched into his face.

“I’m sorry,” Credence says when they arrive at the boundary of the estate, before they can go their separate ways still hurting.

“So am I,” Percival sighs. “It feels like one of us is always sorry for something. We’re getting to know each other again, I suppose.”

“But I’m glad we are.” Credence waves a hand when he can’t get the words out, can’t make his mouth fit around all the eloquent things he wants to say. “I'm just—I’m glad you’re here.”

That assertion doesn’t encompass all that’s in his heart and mind, but it makes Percival smile again.

“I’ll come see you tomorrow in the morning before I go to work,” he says. “If that’s all right? I know better than to ask you to take breakfast with me, although you’re welcome to.”

Credence ducks his head shyly, relieved he hasn’t lost Percival's friendship completely to his own folly. “I’d like that. You coming to see me, I mean.”

“Then I will.”

With that promise made, Percival breaks off to go home to his opulent mansion, and Credence heads home to his lacklustre cottage. Ma berates him the second he crosses the threshold for the length of time he's been out with Percival, who she hates more than ever now. She doesn’t raise a hand to him, thankfully, and he wonders if it’s because she’s been intimidated by Percival’s threat. He wonders how long that fear might last.

As he lays in bed that night, he counts down the hours until he’ll see Percival again in the morning.

When he finally falls asleep, he dreams of letters falling from the sky like rain—an endless stream of paper with typed words and handwritten ones all fluttering down while Credence tries desperately to catch them, but every single one still slips through his grasp.

Percival is there. He stands opposite Credence and watches him struggle. His face is blurred, strange and expressionless. It’s him, but Credence just doesn’t know _how_ he knows that. The letters turn into leaves when they hit the ground. Despite Credence's calls for him to stop, Percival crouches down and touches one with wonder.

In his sleep, Credence trembles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~I swear this will start to look more Atonement-like soon~~


	3. June, 1937 (1)

_June, 1937_

Taking in the sunrise together on weekdays becomes a regular occurrence. Shortly after Credence starts work each morning, he’ll look up and find Percival walking across the garden towards him. The sight is enough to have his stomach in knots every time.

As May grows weary and finally surrenders to fresh-faced June, even the early hours are warm enough for Percival to come out in just a shirt and his waistcoat, jacket either left at the house or slung carelessly over his arm. Sometimes, he even forgoes the waistcoat too—those are Credence’s favourite days.

They talk about everything and nothing on these mornings before Percival leaves for MACUSA, the conversation topics ranging from the mundane to the meaningful. Of course, even the mundane becomes meaningful to Credence when Percival is the one lending it his animated voice, hands gesturing, eyes flashing.

On this particular morning, he has something he wants to say right from the outset. Credence recognises the purpose in his stride instantly.

He starts with “good morning, Credence” like he always does, the first words Credence hears for the day, the ones his heart yearns for as he dresses for work every morning, smiling at himself in the mirror. The precise inflection he gives Credence’s name seems to be one no other voice can imitate.

“I have to entertain a guest in a couple of weeks time,” Percival says next. His expression, previously warm when he greeted Credence, now turns cool. His mouth twists. “A visiting diplomat that the President didn’t want to host. I’ve drawn the short straw, unfortunately.”

Credence brushes his palms together, trying to get rid of the dirt that covers them. He’s unsuccessful, on the whole. “Who is it?”

Percival hands him a rag to clean his hands off a bit better. “His name is Gellert Grindelwald,” he says. “He’s from some European country, I forget which.” Here, Percival flaps a hand, dismissive not of Europe, Credence suspects, but of this diplomat he’s speaking about. “The man’s a separatist wolf in sheep’s clothing. He frames himself as a peacemaker, but his views on Wizarding and No-Maj integration are well known.”

“I… see,” Credence says uncertainly. The politics of Wizarding America are still confusing to him, but the wider global situation is even foggier. “So he doesn’t think Wizards and No-Majes can live together?”

Percival hums, equivocal. “More that they _shouldn’t_. He wanted to come because of his interest in Rappaport’s Law, and he’s timed it right around the vote in Congress about whether we might revise that law, the bastard.”

This is more familiar territory to Credence—Rappaport’s Law is something Percival has spoken to him at length about before. He’s been on the receiving end of many rants from him about how he wanted ‘progress’ and ‘a shift away from complete segregation’.

Changing this rigid law definitely seems like a noble pursuit to Credence, but then he wouldn’t expect any less from Percival.

He knows Percival thinks that Wizards should be able to befriend and even marry No-Majes legally, instead of having to hide their relationships. He’s heard Percival say time and time again that he doesn’t agree with a blind eye being turned to wealthy families like his—where No-Maj staff have been running the entire estate for years because his step-mother disdained the idea of having house-elves—while others suffer harsh penalties for falling in love with the wrong person.

(He also knows Percival hates the idea of house-elves too, but for a different reason altogether. At least he could _pay_ human staff.)

From hearing Percival talk about all of this though, it always sounds like he’s part of a small minority who actually want change. A lone revolutionary voice getting drowned out by the cacophony of intolerance.

The fact that he continued to fight for what he believed in, unswayed by the hopelessness of his uphill battle, was just yet another reason to love him beyond measure.

“Thankfully,” Percival says, drawing Credence back into the conversation, “it will only be for one weekend, and I’ve invited some friends to act as a buffer. Newt and Tina Scamander. They’re bringing their kid too, just to be difficult. I’m sure Grindelwald hates children.”

That piques Credence’s interest—he’d love to meet people that Percival considered ‘friends’. That is, if it weren’t an impossibility, given his station.

“Oh?” he says mildly, not letting his intrigue show too much.

“You’ll like them. Tina’s one of my best Aurors and her husband works with magical beasts, apparently. I’ve never met him, but I know his older brother.”

Credence tries to smile. He can feel that one side of his mouth is still pulling the wrong way. “They sound nice, but I doubt I’ll have occasion to meet them.”

“Sure you will,” Percival says breezily, “I’ll introduce you to them both, if nothing else. But…”

There’s a gentle rustling as he shifts about in the grass. Credence watches, mesmerised as always at seeing him indecisive. He’s just so unused to it.

“Now,” Percival begins in a determined tone, “please don’t just say ‘no’ to this right away, okay?”

Credence nods his assent, but he feels dread make a home for itself in his stomach, coiling up like a seemingly-contented cat, ready to shred his insides with its claws at a moment’s notice.

“I was hoping you might join us for dinner. _Because_ ,” Percival continues when Credence opens his mouth (in surprise, as it happened, rather than to refuse outright), “I thought you might add a No-Maj perspective to the conversation, seeing as you manifested your magic so late. I really want to outnumber Grindelwald and I’d appreciate it if you helped.”

Credence shuts his mouth again. He wasn’t expecting to be asked for his ‘perspective’. He hadn’t considered himself as having much of one to give.

“Okay,” he says, shocking himself and Percival both with his agreement.

It feels like someone else just said that and he was watching, aghast, from the outside. He can’t take it back now though, so he might as well commit to his decision. He makes his voice firmer. “Okay,” he repeats. “I’ll join you.”

Percival’s answering smile is worth his trepidation over the whole thing.

 

* * *

 

The Saturday when Percival’s guests are set to arrive in the afternoon is surely the hottest day of the year.

Credence’s shirt is plastered to his back with sweat. He’s almost panting for breath under the midday sun as he pushes his wheelbarrow across the gardens, eyes drawn inexorably over to the lake where he can just make out the shape of Percival, enjoying his last few hours of freedom as he lounges by the waterside. It’s become something of a habit of his when he’s home during the day on weekends.

This abominable heatwave will be Credence’s undoing. It makes him foolish, unbalanced, and—most concerning of all—impulsive. Against his better judgment, his feet follow his eyes and heart and he strolls as casually as he can towards the lake.

“Credence,” Percival greets without looking at him. He must have heard the distinctive sound of the wheelbarrow approaching.

He’s laying on the grass a few feet from the water’s edge and staring up at the sky with his left hand pillowed behind his head, the other resting where hip meets thigh. His shirtsleeves are folded up to the elbows and he’s barefoot with his trouser legs rolled up to the knees.

From his appearance to his pose, he makes for a complete display of languor. He’s the living epitome of the sin of sloth and Credence feels as if he could melt just seeing him like this, as if his very bones wanted to become liquid inside him.

Not content with personifying just one sin, Percival is the embodiment of lust too—with his shirt collar open along with several buttons below it, Credence is tempted like Eve was by the Serpent. More so, he dares believe.

His tongue seems to throb with wanting as he stares at the damp, glistening hollow of Percival’s throat. He traces the shape of his collarbones, wishing he could do it with fingers instead of his worshipful gaze. His imagination takes flight with ideas of trailing kisses down the exposed breastbone below and then continuing on down his abdomen until...

Credence takes a deep breath.

It doesn’t steady him at all and he ends up fixating on Percival’s right hand where it lies perilously close to his groin in a way that makes him feel faint, light-headed, prone to swooning like a maiden as his body temperature rises still further. He feels a bead of sweat meander down the back of his neck. Hears the drone of a bumblebee passing behind him.

It’s a feverish, almost delirious kind of insanity that has him envisioning that hand moving but two inches over until Percival would be touching himself. Unbidden, his mind provides salacious images of Percival with his head thrown back, panting for breath and arching off the grass as he lazily stroked himself to completion in the sunshine where anyone—no, no, where _Credence_ —might happen upon him at any second.

Credence shifts his hips, sensitive and awkward, and feels grateful for the wheelbarrow in front of him. He bites his tongue in the hope that the pain might settle his wicked imaginings.

“Good afternoon,” he eventually replies, voice rough, tongue swollen and stinging. “It’s another beautiful day,” he comments, although he feels far from enthusiastic about it currently.

Percival huffs out a derisive snort, shuts his eyes, and gives a brief, writhing kind of stretch that sets Credence’s heart racing all over again. “It’s intolerable,” he sighs, “don’t pretend it’s not. Why are you working on a Saturday, in this heat? Have you gone mad? I'm sure I don't pay you enough for this.”

“‘The Devil makes work for idle hands’,” Credence quotes. “Ma and the girls have gone out to get new shoes for Modesty now she’s outgrown the old ones again. Sitting around by myself doesn’t make the heat any better, so I thought I might as well make myself busy.”

Percival opens one eye again to give Credence a wry look. “I can think of nothing worse. Being _busy_ , on a day like this. You’re only going to get hotter if you’re working outdoors, Credence, that’s just common sense. Come here; why don’t you lay down beside me?”

He takes that simultaneously innocent and lewd right hand off of his hip to pat the grass at his side in invitation.

Credence hesitates, fingers slipping against the handles of the wheelbarrow. He makes up his mind in a heartbeat though and he sets the cart down carefully so as not to spill its contents, wipes his hands off on the front of his shirt, and goes to sit at Percival’s side.

He hugs his knees to his chest and looks down at the lake, the surface shimmering in the sunlight. The urge to just throw himself in to cool down is immense. He recalls doing exactly that as a child during the height of a summer just like this one over a decade ago, jumping into the water fully dressed even as Percival called out to him to stop.

“Do you remember…” Credence pauses, licks his lips.

“Hmm?”

“Do you remember when I was ten and you saved me from drowning?”

Percival laughs, clearly delighted by the reminder. Credence frowns, because his memory of the day is hardly a _good_ one. His ears ring even now as he remembers Percival reprimanding him for being so idiotic after they both got out of the lake, Credence shivering and spluttering in Percival’s arms.

“I was so worried,” Percival says, the serious words contrasting with the levity of his tone. “Every single spell that might have been useful went right out of my head. All I could think to do was jump in there after you.”

“You called me a ‘stupid child’,” Credence mumbles.

It’s something he still hears, sometimes. It’s that voice, those words which chastise him for thinking of Percival now in a less than pure way, for wanting things he knows he can’t have.

_Stupid child._

“You _were_ ,” Percival says, still with that good humour that Credence can’t seem to find in return. “Luckily, those days of reckless abandon are over. Then again, you’ve grown up far too serious.”

Credence is surprised to hear that. “Is there such a thing?”

“Of course there is! Look at you, you can’t even lie down on this, the most glorious and terrible of summer days. What will it take for you to loosen up?”

“I don’t know,” Credence answers honestly. It’s not something a Barebone does, really—too preoccupied with duty and piety and etiquette. All Credence knows is abstinence from anything pleasurable. Relaxation is for those who can afford it, whether the currency be the regular kind, or time, or even just the lack of someone telling you that you don’t _deserve_ a break.

“Perhaps an example then, to show you how it’s done.” Percival’s glittering eyes give away the mischief of whatever he’s plotting and Credence withdraws into himself slightly, apprehensive.

“You’re a better swimmer now, I take it?” Percival asks.

“Yes,” Credence says, but he doesn’t follow Percival’s meaning.

Percival sits bolt upright, gives Credence a grin that takes his breath away, and then he stands up and goes running for the lake.

“Maybe you’ll save me this time then!” he calls over his shoulder while he picks up speed.

Credence makes it to his feet just as Percival hits the water. He hurtles over to the lake, heart in his mouth as he waits for Percival to resurface.

A number of agonisingly long seconds pass before Percival’s head pops up. He’s wearing the same grin as before when he does, dented a little now though by the shock of the sudden change in temperature. He shudders, but his smile only gets wider again after.

“This is what heaven feels like,” he tells Credence. “Join me, come on.”

“I can’t.”

What would Ma say, if she knew he was jumping into lakes with their employer like a fool? Like the child he no longer is?

 _Stupid child_.

“You can,” Percival insists. “Live a little! Why do you always deny my every request like this?”

“Maybe because I actually have a sense of decorum, Mister Graves.”

At that, Percival’s smile vanishes. It hurts to see, but Credence can’t regret the formality, or yet another refusal of something Percival has asked of him. He can’t keep _forgetting himself_ around Percival. He has to remind them both of his place, constantly.

“Fine,” Percival says. His arms and legs make the few necessary strokes to get himself back to dry land and he begins to climb out of the lake, the vigour and jerkiness of his movements betraying his frustration.

Credence wants to go and offer him a hand, but he knows it wouldn’t be welcome with Percival in this mood. And then moving at all is out of the question when Percival gets himself upright and stands tall again—Credence is made completely immobile by the vision he presents.

He’s dripping wet, clothes saturated and heavy against his body. His white, half-open shirt has turned transparent and clings to his chest, letting Credence drink in the shape of every ridge of bone, every plane of muscle.

Most arresting of all is the sight of his nipples, the peaks of them obvious, _obscene_ through the damp fabric. They’re darker than Credence’s own, a chestnut brown colour that Credence is doomed now to recreate in his mind over and over when sleep will not find him.

He suddenly understands the artists throughout history who were obsessed with their muses—if he possessed even a modicum of the talent necessary, he would depict Percival like this a thousand times, exploring every facet of his body in every possible medium. A magnum opus, in watercolours or charcoal or marble.

He’s never wanted to touch someone so badly in all his life. He wants to wrest that sodden shirt from Percival’s shoulders and throw it far away, wants to let his fingers and his _mouth_ learn every shape his eyes have just memorised. He wants to be able to recognise Percival even if he were blindfolded.

Credence knows his jaw is probably hanging slack, but he can’t do a single thing about it. He’s lost control of his body, so focused as he is on Percival’s.

As soon as his gaze shifts back to Percival’s face though, he’s powerless to move it away again. Percival’s chin is tilted up defiantly and his eyes _burn_ with emotions that Credence can scarcely decipher. He seems both furious and embarrassed. Furious to _be_ embarrassed before Credence, perhaps.

For an endless moment, they just look at one another.

Then, after what feels like hours of silent staring (but must only have been seconds in reality), Percival starts moving again. He stomps past him, wet shoulder just brushing Credence’s as he goes.

Credence sits down heavily in the grass after that, knees giving out under the strain of carrying him in this state.

He’s hard, he realises with a bolt of shame when he feels a pulse from his groin. His face burns with a fierceness to match the raging sun that strokes down over him as if in punishment for his sins.

It’s a long while before he feels ready to move again.

 

* * *

 

Percival comes to find him about two hours or so later. His guests must have arrived in the interim, although Credence didn’t see anyone approach the house after he got back to work. Perhaps they Apparated from somewhere.

“You should be getting ready for dinner,” Percival says from behind him, startling him where he was watering the rhododendrons.

Credence abandons his task and gets to his feet at once to face him. He’s dressed in a full suit now, shirt buttoned to the top, wearing a tie and jacket even in this heat. He must be _boiling_.

“Percival,” Credence says, breathless, “I want to apologise for—”

Percival cuts him off by holding up one hand. “There have been more than enough apologies between us.” He pauses, seems to agonise over a decision for a few seconds, and then asks: “Why do you think that is? Do you think there’s a reason why we end up hurting each other every time we speak?”

His honest tone invites an honest answer, but Credence doesn’t quite know what to say in response to him.

“I think I might know the reason,” Percival continues, nodding as if to assure himself of something. “But do you?”

Credence opens his mouth. Closes it again. Feels stupid. He knows his own reason intimately, but he doesn’t dare guess at Percival’s. Maybe he should.

Percival breaks eye contact with him then, looking up at the sky. Credence follows his gaze and they both watch the dark shape of a bird, its type unrecognisable at this distance, fly overhead. They regard each other silently again when the bird’s path moves towards the sun and they have to look away from its brightness.

Credence tries to answer him, but nothing comes out except for a dry click from his throat.

That’s when a new voice bursts the bubble the two of them had been existing in. “Mister Graves, I hoped I would find you out here.”

They turn at the same time and, in an instant, Percival’s entire demeanour changes. His posture improves for a start—back straightened, hands clasped politely behind his back. His face, so open and trusting with Credence, abruptly shutters, a placid smile pasted on his mouth that doesn’t reach his eyes.

The man before them is pale, paler even than Credence, who at least has his dark hair for contrast. This man’s hair, eyebrows, and moustache are almost white, but it all looks unnatural on a middle-aged man like him. The three-piece suit he’s wearing is white too and the shirt beneath is the only bit of colour on him in cornflower blue. Even his tie is white. With Percival in all black beside him, they look like two sides of a well-dressed coin.

“Mister Grindelwald,” Percival greets, tone mild. “Were you looking for me for a particular reason? I trust you’re finding your way around without issue.”

Grindelwald smiles at him. He ignores Credence completely. “It’s a beautiful estate you have here,” he says in a lightly accented voice. “I’m certain I will enjoy my stay, although I still find it hard to understand why I am enjoying your hospitality instead of your President’s. I’m surprised she delegated the honour to you rather than hosting me herself.”

 _The honour?_ Credence bites his lip and bows his head to hide his expression, servile in a way he doesn’t actually feel before this man. He just doesn’t want to draw his attention.

“President Picquery thought you would find my home more agreeable. Thank you for your compliment about the estate, although I’ll have to redirect some of that praise to Credence here. He’s responsible for the beautiful gardens you see around you.”

Percival’s hand lands on his right shoulder and Credence jumps a little at the touch.

“Oh,” Grindelwald says. He gives Credence a disparaging glance from head to toe, lip slightly curled. “Credence, did you say? What an unusual name. And you’re a squib, I perceive.”

Percival’s hand tightens. “Far from that. Credence is a very capable Wizard.”

He sets his other hand on Credence’s left shoulder and turns his back on Grindelwald to address him only at this point. The touch and their proximity thrill Credence as much as the certainty that it’s the the height of bad manners to ignore a visiting diplomat in favour of speaking with the _gardener_ like this.

“I look forward to seeing you at dinner later on,” Percival says. “You’re released from your work to go home and change now in plenty of time. Now, if you’ll please excuse us.” His hands leave Credence’s shoulders and he turns to give his attention to Grindelwald again. “Mister Grindelwald, perhaps we should walk together and I can answer whatever query brought you out here to find me?”

Grindelwald’s smile in response to the offer is decidedly frosty. “An excellent idea. I wanted to speak to you in more detail about the intricacies of Rappaport’s Law.”

“Wonderful.”

Credence hopes the sarcasm in that reply wasn’t as obvious to Grindelwald as it was to him. He nods at Grindelwald in goodbye—a gesture that the other man doesn’t return—and then hurries off towards his cottage.

He passes Modesty when he’s nearly home. She’s darting about as if playing in the long grass next to the trees near the fence that borders the road up to the main house.

“How are the new shoes?” he calls out to her.

She beams on seeing him. “Good!” she shouts back, running over to him, cream dress billowing out behind her. He sees that she doesn’t have any shoes on at all at the moment, so whatever they bought today must be inside the house.

Credence walks over to meet her halfway, smiling at her youthful energy, not dampened in the slightest by the intensity of this heatwave.

“Where are Ma and Chastity?” he asks.

He prays that they’re not around. He just wants to bathe and get dressed in his tuxedo in privacy—he doesn’t want to hear their contemptuous taunts over his fancy attire, over daring to join their employer’s dinner party.

He doesn’t want to hear that pride cometh before a fall.

“They’ve gone into work,” she says. “Sarah came and told them there’s this big dinner going on and that she needed Ma’s help. Chastity went to help too, but I think she just went because she’s nosey.”

Credence is relieved enough to just laugh at that, instead of telling her off like he should do for speaking ill of their sister. “You know,” he says, “I think you’re right. Say, Modesty… can you keep a secret?”

Modesty nods, eyes wide and guileless. Excited to be privy to whatever he’s about to confess.

“I’m going to that dinner,” he says, one hand cupping his mouth while he stage-whispers the words. “Mister Graves invited me.”

Her eyes get wider still. “Really?” she gasps in awe.

Unlike Ma and Chastity, Credence suspects Modesty quite likes Percival. He’s seen them wave to each other a number of times from across the grounds, watched him put a finger to his lips and present her with tubes of jelly beans and boxes of chocolates that Credence would never see any evidence of in the house later on—the clever girl.

He nods, unable to suppress his proud grin. “Yes,” he says, “but don’t tell Ma if you see her. She’ll probably see me there later, if she’s still helping out, but at least she won’t be able to say anything in front of everybody.”

“Okay.”

Modesty nods and dashes off to play again, simple as that. Credence watches her for a moment, nostalgic for his own childhood, before heading inside to prepare.

With no one there to know or stop him, and with more hours than he needs to get ready, he takes his time in the bath. He reclines in the cool water, head resting against the lip of the tub, arms dangling over the sides, one big toe jammed in the leaky faucet. It’s a wonderful escape from the heat of the day.

As they usually do, his thoughts turn to Percival. The image of him after he got out of the lake is still fresh in his mind and his arousal blossoms in a dizzying rush with the recollection not just of his body, but of the fire in his eyes before he pushed past Credence earlier.

It’s a look he’s never seen on Percival before. Like he was angry, almost incandescent with it, and just barely restraining himself from doing _something_. Not hurting Credence, never that, but definitely giving in to some deep passion within himself that he must have been denying up to then. There was something primal, something almost _predatory_ about him in that moment, and something equally instinctive in Credence’s own reaction to him—waiting for him to pounce.

He realises now two things that he hadn’t been fully conscious of at the time:

He had thought Percival was going to kiss him. Percival had looked like he _wanted_ to kiss him.

It’s a strange thing, to be aware of his thoughts on the situation now when he hadn’t been then, but there it is:

He had stood there, pinned like an antelope beneath a lion’s weight, and he had waited for Percival to take what was his.

The thought has Credence reaching down to touch himself then before he can feel any guilt over doing it, breaths already coming fast and shallow.

He wants. There’s no specific thing to follow that thought up with, he just _wants_. He wants so much, all of the time, and it’s starting to become unbearable.

He gasps at the first tug of his hand over his erection. It’s been a while since he’s done this. With three girls in the house most of the time, this is an indulgence he can only rarely enjoy. He certainly means to enjoy it now.

He’s gentle to start with, careful with himself like he imagines Percival would be. This isn’t a shameful act, in his eyes—Credence knows that without needing to be told. Masturbation isn’t a sin to a Godless man and Credence decides he can borrow some of that conviction, let it bolster his own.

He strokes himself slowly, drawing out the sensation, basking in it.

His toes curl. The tap starts dripping again without a stopper.

He pushes up into his curled hand with a sigh, eyes closed so he can forget the movements of his own arm and pretend the fingers wrapped around him belong to Percival. He thinks of the hand that gripped his shoulder earlier gripping his cock now and finds he can’t keep to his slow pace for long.

He speeds up his stroking, hips stuttering and breath hitching. Instead of imagining Percival doing this for _him_ , he moves on to imagining it the other way around. He thinks of Percival, stretched out in the grass by the lake like he was earlier, letting Credence give him pleasure. And he’d work so hard to do it, he thinks desperately, half-mad with desire, he’d make it so, so good for him.

He pictures Percival’s face if it _was_ good: eyes fluttering shut, sooty lashes coming to rest above his flushed cheeks, forehead furrowing as he got close, closer, mouth dropping open and then—

“Per—”

Credence comes just imagining Percival’s face at the point of orgasm.

He lays there for a good few minutes in the aftermath while he waits for his tremors to subside, for his heartrate and breathing to slow.

He waits also for the guilt to come, but it doesn’t. Not for masturbating, nor for thinking of Percival while he did it. He’s obviously gone too far beyond redemption now to feel such things.

He sighs. Time to get out of the bath.

 

* * *

 

Barefoot, dressed in his vest and trousers with his braces hanging down by his sides, Credence sits at his desk beneath the window in his bedroom and attempts to draft a letter. He starts with his typewriter and quickly changes to writing by hand—more personal.

> _Dear Percival,_
> 
> _You asked me earlier why we always have to say sorry to one another, why we always seem to hurt each other with our words and actions. You said you thought you knew, but you never did get to tell me._
> 
> _I think I might know why too._
> 
> _I think it’s because we’re in love. It’s in our blood and it’s in our stars and I can’t get it out, Percival. I can’t bury my feelings enough to be able to relate to you like I would anyone else._
> 
> _I think that’s why we can’t be friends the way we would like to be. We’re both too full of resentment for all the things we aren’t saying to each other, and it makes what little we do say hard when it should be soft, angry when it should be joyous—_

Credence growls, screws up the paper, and drops it on the floor at his feet to be burned with an _Incendio_ later on. He can’t presume to know Percival’s feelings that way.

He starts again.

> _Dear Percival,_
> 
> _I love you—_

He starts again many, many times.

Eventually, he’s so frustrated with himself and with the inadequacy of his attempts to tell Percival how he feels that he ends up writing something wildly inappropriate:

> _I touched myself thinking of you just now. I long to feel you inside of me. I dream about you making love to me all through the night._

Credence all but throws his pen down after writing that, both hands clapped over his mouth as he laughs shakily at his own audacity in committing those words to ink on paper.

Folding that absurd note in half, he puts it aside to his right, thinking that he’ll have to burn that one _twice_ to make sure it’s really gone. With a rueful shake of his head, he starts writing again:

> _Dearest Percival,_
> 
> _You’d be forgiven for thinking me mad, the way I act around you all the time. The truth is, I constantly have to conceal my feelings for you and it pains me more than I can put into words. However, I’ve begun to think lately that it could be a pain we share. Am I right? Or is it just the weather making me more of a fool than normal? I’m always light-headed in your presence, Percival, and I don’t think I can blame the heat._
> 
> _Yours,_
> 
> _Credence_

It’s the best he’s done so far, perhaps. Credence sighs and folds the letter, dropping it on the left side of his desk, ready to put it into an envelope. He’ll get dressed first, he decides, and then he can make up his mind in that time whether he’s going to give it to Percival or not.

He goes to the wardrobe almost trembling with anticipation—finally, he has a chance to wear Percival’s gift. In front of his mirror, he only fumbles a few buttons as he fastens his shirt over his vest. He tucks his shirt in then and pulls his braces up over his shoulders. Next, he slides the waistcoat over the top, buttons it, and slips into his jacket, pleased with the way both of them fit as well as when he first tried the suit on years ago. The cut of it is flattering even on his skinny frame.

His hair is the next issue. Heart in his mouth in fear of getting it wrong for such an important occasion, he transforms it into a much shorter, more fashionable cut with the aid of magic before styling it manually into a neat side part. It turns out quite well, much to his relief. He’ll miss the long curls, but he wants to look like he belongs tonight.

He has to be perfect.

After lacing his shoes, he can put it off no longer. He returns to his desk and picks up the folded piece of paper that was his final letter to Percival. Before he can change his mind, he hastily puts it into an envelope, seals it, burns the rest, and strides out of the cottage.

Modesty is still playing when he gets outside and begins the walk up to the main house. It gives him an idea—he can’t lose his nerve on the journey if he’s already sent the letter ahead. It will afford Percival a chance to consider it before he sees him and Credence won’t have to watch his first reaction.

“Modesty!” he shouts.

His sister dutifully comes to him, red in the face, blonde hair stuck to her forehead with sweat. She looks at him like he’s a stranger. “You look…” she trails off, unable to find the right word. “You look really different, Credence.”

He laughs at her assessment, wishing for a better confidence boost. It will have to do. “Could I ask a favour of you?”

Modesty nods immediately, so Credence holds out the unaddressed envelope to her. “Will you take this up to Percival?”

The use of his first name earns a suspicious frown and Credence winces at his mistake. “I meant Mister Graves, of course. Will you take it to him?”

“Sure,” she says, taking the letter from his fingers. “Okay.”

She runs off with it and Credence watches her go, feeling sick and breathing so fast that he’s close to hyperventilating.

It will be okay, he tells himself, trying to calm down. At least Percival will _know_ now, before he sees Credence like this: wearing the suit he had tailor-made for him, free from the dirt of his job, hair in a style that wouldn’t stick out amongst the company he was going to join.

Tonight represents the very best Credence has to offer. His one chance to clean up good and impress. If Percival doesn’t want him on this night, then he definitely won’t want him on any other.

The realisation only hits him when Modesty must be over a hundred yards away from him already. Too far away to hear his shout that more closely resembles a _scream_.

Two pieces of folded paper on his desk. Right, left. One envelope.

He’s sent the wrong one.

_“Modesty!”_


	4. June, 1937 (2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After all the build-up, I fervently hope this following scene is not the let-down of the century! D: *crosses fingers and goes off to hide*

Credence adjusts his bow tie for the fifth time and pulls on the doorbell rope once again. He tugs at his collar, grimacing at the way he’s sweating in both the cloying heat and in his anxiety. The temperature remains high despite the falling dark after the slow descent of the sun in the past few hours. The very air around Credence seems to stick to his face and hands, seems to settle on top of him like yet another weight. A bead of perspiration trails down his temple and his palms grow appallingly slick at the thought of Percival being the one to answer the door. He finds he has to put his back to it or risk losing his courage altogether.

Biting his lip, he walks down a few of the steps leading up to the front entrance of the house, convinced the lack of an answer so far is a sign that he should just go back to the cottage. What a remarkably stupid idea it was to still come here, he thinks, after what Percival had no doubt read by now in that letter.

But… he has to know what Percival thought of it. If Percival is as mortified as he has every right to be, then Credence has to apologise for his crude fantasies, for his blatant objectification of a man he holds in the highest regard. If Percival is _not_ mortified… Credence isn’t sure what he’ll do, but he has to give himself the chance to find out.

He hears the door open.

He turns around.

Percival stands in the foyer, his face free from any expression at all. He’s immaculate in a black tuxedo without even one hair on his head out of place. He looks every inch the handsome bachelor that he is and Credence struggles not to lose his footing in his awe-inspiring presence.

When Percival’s impassive eyes travel down the length of his body, Credence swallows hard around the obstruction in his throat, desperately hoping that he measures up in his own tuxedo—that Percival likes the way his gift looks on him. The only thought in his head as he put the suit on was that he wanted to be perfect in Percival’s eyes. He wanted to be everything Percival could possibly want, now and forever.

Neither of them speak immediately. Credence finds his tongue and vocal cords have stiffened and won’t obey him. Percival, meanwhile, seems to be waiting for him to talk first, and so Credence sucks in a deep breath and wills sound to come out of his mouth.

“It was a mistake,” he eventually manages to croak out.

“Was it?” Percival asks, narrowed eyes as sharp as his words. They pierce Credence’s flesh like arrows.

“Yes, that was…” Credence scrambles around for the right thing to say, but there _is_ no right in this situation. “That was the—that letter was the wrong version. The one you received was never meant to be read.”

Percival leans against the doorjamb, almost unbearably casual in the face of Credence’s stammering. “Then it’s probably a double blow for you to hear that I think Modesty read it before I did.”

Good Lord. His baby sister read that filth. Credence shuts his eyes and wishes— _prays_ that he just falls through the floor and descends into the Pit here and now. Hell doesn’t snatch him up at once though for perverting the innocent, and so Credence will have to make amends when he can.

“I’ll speak with her.”

“I’m sure,” Percival says, still in that awful neutral tone, still without giving anything away with his facial expression. He doesn’t seem disgusted, but he doesn’t seem elated either.

“I’m sorry.” Credence’s voice breaks as he says it. The sound makes him cringe.

Much to Credence’s relief, Percival’s mask cracks and falls away as he frowns at that. “What for? For finally admitting your true feelings to me?”

“Those—those aren’t my true feelings. That was just….”

Just what, though? Just the culmination of years of suppressing his desire for this man?

“Lust?” Percival guesses mildly.

“Yes,” Credence breathes out the admission, “and I’m sorry for that.”

Percival looks down then and he fiddles with the cuffs of his shirt, tugging at each one so more white peeks out from under the black sleeve of his jacket. His cufflinks shine, clearly polished for the occasion.

“I’m not,” he says without looking back up.

Credence’s stomach lurches and the sensation is as paradoxically pleasant as it is horrible. Hope wars with despondency in his chest, his heart bleating for help as it gets torn in two directions.

“I—I don’t understand,” he says.

Percival’s head lifts again and his eyes meet Credence’s steadily. “Then I’ll show you.”

And with that, he turns on the spot and strides away into the house. Mind and heart racing, Credence is incapable of doing anything _but_ follow him.

As Credence trails after him, Percival suddenly takes a brisk left turn and Credence realises he’s leading them to the library. It’s somewhere none of the guests tonight will have any business going, if they have any awareness of the room at all.

It’s somewhere they won’t be disturbed.

Credence’s heart rate picks up further. His footsteps quicken too.

Percival opens the heavy door and goes through without looking back to check Credence is following him. Credence steps over the threshold and shuts the door behind them. He does it gently so as not to call attention to where they are, but the click of the latch is somehow deafening regardless.

Still not looking at him, Percival crosses the room and waves a hand, causing the lamp on the desk to flare to life. He then walks around the desk, finally turning to face Credence again as he settles his back against the bookcases behind him. His fingers curl around the wooden ladder to his right.

“So what was in the version I _was_ meant to read?” he asks.

Credence rolls his tongue around in his mouth. “I don’t know,” he lies. “It was nothing.”

“I doubt that very much,” Percival says. “I refuse to believe it was _nothing_ , not coming from you.”

Credence struggles to form any words in response to that. Percival sighs and runs a hand through his hair, hopelessly disturbing the style. That minor dishevelment only serves to make him more handsome and Credence eyes the loose strands with longing, fingers itching to further unsettle them, to _pull_ at them in the midst of desire.

Percival sighs again when Credence still doesn’t reply. “I’m not sorry I got the ‘wrong’ version, Credence, because it was the acknowledgement of something we’ve both been dancing around for weeks now. It’s been there ever since I came back and I don’t want to deny it anymore. I’m tired of telling myself I’m too old for you. I’m tired of thinking that I’ve somehow forced you into this when I know I haven’t.”

Credence’s ears are ringing by the time Percival trails off. He feels faint, unreal and uncertain. _Surely_ this is all a dream. Has he fallen asleep in the bath?

Almost unconsciously, he sets the nail of his middle finger against the pad of his thumb, pressing down hard enough to feel a sting.

It’s no dream. Credence’s lips part in readiness to answer Percival properly, but he speaks again before Credence can even begin to shape either vowel or consonant with them.

“Aren’t _you_ tired?” he asks, his voice as small as Credence has ever heard it. “ _You_ wrote that letter, you... you understand, don’t you?”

He sounds so vulnerable, so unsure of himself. And Credence has loved him all his life, it feels like. He can’t bear to have Percival doubt that for even a second.

The idea of it fractures something in him and he finds himself walking straight into Percival’s space until he’s close enough to touch.

“I do,” he swears. “Of course I understand. Percival, I...”

The words are inadequate, so Credence shakes his head, steps forward, and kisses him.

For the longest moment, it’s just that: Credence, with his lips on Percival’s, applying a soft, careful pressure.

It’s Credence’s first kiss.

They both keep their eyes open and when Credence pulls his head back, he meets Percival’s gaze boldly, searching for the confirmation that he wants this to go further, that _this_ was his intention when he brought them into the library.

Percival’s eyelashes flutter as he glances down at Credence’s mouth and then back up to his eyes. The sheer hunger in his gaze makes Credence sway slightly on the spot.

Percival smiles and reaches for him then, strong arms folding around Credence to steady him, palms pressing down on his shoulder blades. Credence responds in kind, letting his hands find the back of Percival’s head in order to prevent him hitting the wooden bookshelves that creak behind him.

Answering Credence’s unspoken question, Percival gives a minute dip of his chin to nod before he tilts it up so their noses brush. Eyes still open and focused on Credence, he leans in and haltingly touches his mouth to Credence’s once, twice, three times, with the barest split second pause between each skim of their lips. He’s every bit as gentle as Credence had been with his kiss, if not more.

Credence can’t remember ever thinking of Percival as _delicate_ before, but he is now with Credence—infinitely so. The thought stirs a tidal wave of protectiveness in Credence’s chest and he shivers and aches with the relentless crashing of it as his fingertips rasp over the closely shorn hair at the base of Percival’s skull.

When Percival breaks away a final time, it’s only by a scant inch. With their mouths and noses so close, Credence can tell that Percival isn’t even breathing. Neither is he.

It’s as if time has stopped around them. Whether it’s his magic or Percival’s, a combination of both, or just a trick of his overheated mind, Credence will never be able to tell afterwards. All he knows is that the moment is like molten glass suspended between them, becoming increasingly fragile as it stretches thinner and thinner—

And then Percival lets out a harsh, desperate exhalation through his nose and the sudden recurrence of sound after a total absence of it makes the thread of glass snap. All at once, their lips meet again, their hearts resume their frantic, synchronous beating, and the carriage clock on the desk in front of them remembers to tick.

Credence shuts his eyes, opens his mouth, and gives himself to Percival.

The kiss is every letter locked away in his bureau, every thrill in his heart when he wrote _Mr. Percival Graves_ on another envelope. It’s the memory of every cut healed, every smile and sunrise shared. It’s every plant he’s nurtured blooming before him and every spell he’s cast with a piece of cedar that was once Percival’s held in his hand.

When they part for air, Percival turns his head as though physical separation is the only way to keep from kissing Credence again immediately. He must have shaved just before he came down for the evening because the cheek rubbing against Credence’s with each intake of breath is as smooth as the silk of his bowtie that Credence is busy unfastening so he can open Percival’s top button. That same cheek is also burning hot and Credence frees a hand to briefly stroke the backs of his fingers over the flushed skin, marvelling at his ability to affect Percival so.

They kiss again, clinging to one another. After a few determined seconds, Credence achieves his goal and gets Percival’s collar open enough that his hand can dip in to caress the nape of his neck. The pads of his fingers stutter over the peaks and valleys at the top of Percival’s spine and then slide into his hair above. He clutches at the strands desperately when Percival’s head angles down to kiss his jaw, lips travelling across his throat to suck at his fluttering pulse before they trail a path of kisses up to his ear, then drag over his cheek, peck his nose, his eyebrow, and finally seal over his mouth again.

Percival surrounds him, covers him like the sticky heat of the day. Credence is _drowning_ in him, awareness narrowed to the spicy scent that emanates from his neck, to the almost hurt little noises he’s making in his throat every now and then as they kiss, to the anxious hands that move to cradle his face only to return to splay across his back before moving _again_ to take hold of his hips.

He wants everything all at once and he only has two hands. Credence understands that feeling perfectly.

To him though, it seems as clear as day what his should do next. He tucks his own hands inside Percival’s tuxedo jacket and smoothes his palms down Percival’s sides from his ribs until he meets the waistband of his trousers.

The second he gets his fingers on Percival’s fly, he hears Percival’s breath hitch in his throat, feels him push his pelvis forward in a way that could be construed as trying to help but is, Credence suspects, just an expression of pure, instinctual need and a silent plea for _more_.

With their lips still fused together, Percival’s hands drop to Credence’s trouser fastenings in return and his agitated fingers tug at the material. While Credence has Percival’s trousers open and was just about to explore the warm, cloth-covered bulge beneath, Percival seems to be struggling with Credence’s fly, flustered in a way that is at once endearing and arousing beyond belief.

As (surely) the more inexperienced of the two, Credence can hardly believe that _he’s_ not the one fumbling to get _Percival_ undressed. Percival could use magic, of course, but Credence has the notion that he’s forgotten that possibility entirely in the heat of the moment. Credence isn’t sure that he could muster the concentration needed to perform any spells right now either, even if his life depended on it.

Fingers scrabble at his trousers, ineffective. A whine is pressed between Credence’s lips and he accepts it onto his tongue with amazement, _stunned_ that he has Percival in this almost helpless state. He breaks their kiss and puts his damp, parted mouth to Percival’s cheek softly, hoping the sweetness might slow their pace and allow Percival to regain his composure. It fails though, and even that small gesture makes Percival’s eyes squeeze shut while he pants for breath.

Credence realises this problem will only worsen if he gets down to Percival’s skin. He can already sense Percival’s desperation is turning into frustration and he’d hate for that balance to tip any further. So he abandons his plan to take Percival out of his underwear in favour of helping Percival get to his first. He stills Percival’s questing fingers by taking hold of his wrists and Percival calms instantly at the touch, grounded.

 _Easy_ , Credence thinks at him. _Steady._ He can’t speak the words aloud because the three he most wants to say are lodged in his throat and, until he gives voice to them, no others can hope to get past.

He rubs his thumbs over Percival’s wrists, feels the pounding of his blood through the skin, and they just breathe together for a minute. Credence smiles at him and Percival returns it, albeit with a self-deprecating twist to his mouth.

It’s a twist that’s echoed in Credence’s chest and that’s what decides it. “Percival,” he says.

Wishing for more bravery, Credence lets his head and eyelids fall as if that could hide something, as if it could defend him somehow while he gives his shaking, whispered confession from the depths of his soul:

“I love you.”

Percival doesn’t make him wait for an answer. His fingers gently lift Credence’s chin and he bends his head to ensure Credence meets his gaze again. Credence’s heart trembles like the wings of a fledgling bird before it first takes flight.

“I love you,” Percival says, with absolute certainty and conviction. It’s not a reply—not an ‘I love you, too’ somehow. He says it as if Credence hadn’t just said it first, as if no one else in the history of mankind had ever uttered those words before him in this very moment. From his lips, off his tongue, it’s a sentiment that could never tarnish, no matter how often it might be repeated.

Credence’s heart _soars_.

His eyes sting and he can see Percival’s are glistening in the low light. Percival drops his forehead onto his as he looks down between them in order to _see_ what he’s trying to do now instead of continuing on blind. Overcome with fondness, Credence lets his wrists go and lifts his hands to cup Percival’s face, nuzzling their brows together.

Percival opens his trousers easily then, the movements of his hands smooth, fluid, with all the confidence Credence is used to from him. He notes that Percival’s eyes seem glazed with desire as he brings his hand to his own mouth and licks the palm almost absently. Before Credence can get his sluggish mind to fully understand the implication of that, Percival’s fingers are deftly sliding into his underwear.

The first touch is a revelation. His legs shake as Percival’s damp hand brings him out into the open and strokes him slowly from base to tip and back down again. Credence bites his lip, failing to hold back a choked sound at the intensity of the feeling. He’s overwhelmed by pleasure, by how much _better_ it feels when it’s someone else doing this. He’s literally in Percival’s hands, to do with as he likes, and the unpredictability of his touch is exhilarating. As is the fact that it’s _Percival_ doing this to him, the man he’s loved since he was sixteen, the only person he’s ever wanted this way, the only one he would trust to kiss him and touch him and make him come. The subject of every wet dream and his every waking fantasy.

He’s not going to last long, thinking like this. He thrusts up into Percival’s grip and leans forward to kiss him fiercely, all finesse lost as he insinuates his own hand between them so he can finally bare Percival’s erection and touch him in the way he’s longed to for years now.

The length of him is hot in Credence’s grasp, heavy, and Credence wants to look down and _see it_ at last. He wants to know the pattern of hair he’s feeling around Percival’s cock. He wants to see if it’s as long as his, if it’s thicker—feels like it is, from holding it—but his head is kept in place by Percival’s palm on the side of his neck, by the tongue tangled with his, by teeth that pull and scrape at his lower lip and yet stay just this side of painful.

Credence is aware that his hand is dry save for a bit of clamminess and hopes the friction isn’t uncomfortable for Percival. He’s about to take his hand off to wet it as Percival had when his thumb slides through the pre-come that’s begun leaking from the head of Percival’s cock. The slick feeling of it hits him like a fist to the gut and Percival gasps into his mouth at the change of sensation.

He’s beautiful and he’s close and Credence has _made him this way_.

Credence is spurred on towards his own climax, a tingling feeling shooting through him with the knowledge that Percival is going to spend in his hand soon, in this library, pinned against the bookcases while his guests sit and wait for him at the dinner table.

The mere thought of it has him twitching his hips into Percival’s grip and moving his hand faster over Percival’s erection to urge him to come. Their kissing becomes more passionate, but far less refined. When it gets too uncoordinated to continue, Percival’s head drops onto Credence’s shoulder and Credence feels his teeth clench in his suit jacket as the tension between them ratchets up and they get higher and higher together.

Percival goes over the edge first and Credence is a reverent witness to the moment: Percival stiffens, his mouth opens against Credence’s shoulder, his breath catches, and then he lets out a soft, wounded ‘oh’ sound when his release spills over Credence’s fist around him. As he comes, Percival _shakes_ and his previous rhythmic stroking is no more—his hand jerks over Credence’s length erratically and that change of pace is enough for him. With a cry that he muffles in Percival’s neck, Credence arches and finds release too.

They keep their hands around each other at first after that. Unwilling, _unable_ to let go. They both slacken their grips though when one further stroke from Percival has Credence almost sobbing with oversensitivity. Percival kisses him in apology, his mouth turned pliant, weary and slow against Credence’s as they trade brief, closed-mouth kisses, deepening them at intervals when the need overcomes them.

After long minutes of this, they break apart and Credence sags, exhausted. Percival seems to be in much the same state. He leans heavily into the bookshelves and Credence falls into him, gripping one rung of the ladder beside them with his free hand for stability.

Still gasping for breath, Percival blindly presses their faces together. His nose bumps into Credence’s ear and he turns his head enough that their heated cheeks rub together.

When he pulls his head back a little, he and Credence just look at each other in amazement, as if seeing one another for the first time. They are, in a way.

Like Adam and Eve, their eyes have been opened now they’ve eaten the fruit from the tree of knowledge. They’ve shared something here in the library that they can never come back from.

Unlike Adam and Eve, Credence thinks, they stand on the other side of their deed and are unashamed of their nakedness.

It wasn’t a sin.

A smile spreads over Percival’s mouth and Credence mirrors it. _I love you_ , he thinks. He’d say it again, if he had enough breath in his lungs. If he didn’t think it would come out garbled.

Percival raises a hand to sweep his thumb across Credence’s lower lip and Credence notices then how fat it feels, how much it’s throbbing now after his teeth and Percival’s alike have sat in it. It feels incredible. He tilts his chin up and takes the tip of Percival’s thumb into his mouth because he can, because he wants it to press against his stinging lip, because he still wants any part of Percival inside of him.

Percival moans quietly, hips shifting as his softening cock twitches in Credence’s hand. It makes Credence feel ten feet tall, dizzy with power.

With his eyes fixed on Percival’s, he’s just about to suck more of Percival’s thumb into his mouth when he hears it.

The trembling, clear voice of a child. A girl.

It’s a voice that Credence is awfully familiar with: one that whispers ‘goodnight’ to him every evening before she goes to bed, one that prays with him in church every Sunday.

It’s his sister.

“C-Credence?”


	5. June, 1937 (3)

They’ve been discovered.

Credence feels like he’s falling. Falling, sinking, plummeting, and soon he’ll hit the ground and that will be the end of him. After flying so high without shame, he’s met the sun and his wings have melted as punishment for his hubris.

But it wasn’t hubris, he reminds himself, overruling the insidious voice that sounds like his mother, the one that always tries to fill his skull to the brim with poison. Everything that transpired here in the library between him and Percival was about love and they’ve done nothing wrong. It’s beyond regrettable that Modesty—whose name has never been more ironic—should have seen them like this, but there’s very little that _can_ be seen of him and Percival, at least. In his mind’s eye, he can visualise the picture they make and it isn’t lewd, for all that their proximity must make their intimacy obvious.

The fact that their trousers are open won’t be visible to Modesty. From the doorway, all Modesty should be able to see now is Credence’s back where his body covers Percival’s. Anything they were doing when she first came in to the library would have been concealed from her view.

Credence takes a small step backwards to stop pressing Percival up against the bookshelves. His heart hammers out a fearful rhythm of _what-now, what-next, what-if_.

Without saying anything, Percival waves his hand across the (still miniscule) space between their bodies to cast a cleaning spell. Ever a practical man, he then starts making himself decent again. He quickly tucks himself away, clears his throat, and then zips his trousers with one decisive movement. Credence can tell he’s been thrown totally off balance by the interruption, noting how his flushed cheeks are already growing pale. Percival clears his throat another time and smoothes a hand over his hair to neaten it.

Credence is much slower to cover himself up because his fingers have turned numb and disobedient. He keeps his head down while he fastens his trousers clumsily, unable to look Percival in the face now.

Behind him, he can hear Modesty’s fast, hitching breaths. They’re the kind she makes when she’s struggling not to cry. Credence shut his eyes against the rush of self-loathing that assaults him for being responsible for her distress.

He can’t imagine what she must be thinking of them, especially in the context of that ill-fated letter she read earlier. Maybe she didn’t read it though, he thinks, maybe what they’ve been doing together _isn’t_ obvious. He grimaces at himself, knowing those thoughts are optimistic at best and willful denial at worst. Then again, Modesty is an innocent at the end of the day, as sheltered as Ma could make her. Maybe she’s upset because she thinks their closeness means he’s arguing with Percival. Perhaps she thinks he’s _hurting_ him even, or vice versa.

It’s awful how much that seems like the better option right now. His stomach roils as the repulsive thought chases itself around in his brain: he would rather his baby sister thought he was hurting Percival than kissing him.

When they’re presentable again and Credence is almost ready to face Modesty, Percival touches his cheek, his hand warm and gentle on Credence’s face. The reassurance is a loving gesture that he would bask in under any other circumstances, but Credence has to jerk away from it with Modesty watching in the background. He meets Percival’s eyes and finds no judgement in them for his cowardice. Somehow, that acceptance just makes him feel worse _._

Credence takes a deep breath and turns to look at his sister. What is she even doing here, he wonders, when she should be at home in bed by now?

Her face is red, her features drawn into a frown. Her tiny fists are clenched and shaking at her sides. Anger always looks comical on Modesty, too big and grown-up for her small body to encapsulate, but Credence has never felt less like laughing at her.

He opens his hands and moves to approach her. “Modesty—”

“He’s tempted you in to sin,” she says. Her voice trembles, but it’s still clear, coloured with shades of their mother’s black and white righteousness. “He’s the Devil and I won’t let him have you.”

Credence’s heart seems to stop for a second. So she understands what little she’s seen and now means to protect his immortal soul. How very like her—Modesty has always been possessive of him, knowing as she does how much he favours her over Chastity.

“It isn’t like that,” he says carefully, taking a few more steps towards her and away from Percival, who remains still and watchful behind him. Credence appreciates his silence and the respect it conveys. It allows him to tell his sister plainly: “I love him, Modesty. Do you really think love is a sin, or the work of the Devil? I don’t know about you, but I think it’s God-given.”

For a moment, Modesty’s face softens and she looks unsure of herself. Then she shakes her head, eyes narrowing. “Each person is tempted when they are dragged away by their own evil desire and enticed,” she quotes. “Then, after desire has conceived, it gives birth to sin. And sin, when it is full-grown, gives birth to death.”

Credence sighs, realising he’ll have to change tack. Ma’s words and those of the Bible are too ingrained in her. “Whoever lives in love lives in God,” he quotes back, “and God in them. Modesty, _you_ aren’t full-grown. As clever as you are, these are all things you won’t understand until you’re older. Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” Modesty whispers. She blinks and two tears fall at last from her shining eyes.

Credence strides over to her then, thumbs brushing the tears away as he reaches down to cradle her face in his hands. “And I trust you,” he says, meaning it whole-heartedly, sickened by what he has to ask of her next: “Please, Modesty, don’t tell anyone what you saw tonight. You must know Ma would hurt me very badly if she found out.”

“I won’t allow that to happen,” Percival says suddenly, making Credence flinch. Both at how unexpected his voice was and at the thunderous, crackling vehemence held within it. “I won’t allow her to hurt you, _either_ of you, ever again.”

Credence swipes away two fresh tears from Modesty’s cheeks, chest aching when her face crumples further with misery and confusion. “Do you see now?” he asks. “Percival—Mister Graves, I mean—he isn’t the Devil. He’s a good man. And you’re good too, Modesty. You know right from wrong, don’t you? You know that love is right and you know Ma is wrong to hurt you.”

He hears soft footsteps behind him and then Percival’s hand comes down on his shoulder. “To hurt both of you,” he insists.

Giving a hard sniff, Modesty nods and raises her forearm to rub it roughly over her eyes. “I know,” she says. “I don’t want you to be hurt, Credence.”

Credence drops onto one knee and gathers his sister in his arms, squeezing her middle tight and letting her cry on his shoulder. “Oh Modesty,” he sighs, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head.

He feels Percival sink into a crouch at his side to be level with them both, hears the rustling of his clothing and catches the heady scent of his aftershave. Out of the corner of his eye, Credence watches him stretch a hand out towards Modesty’s hair, hesitate, and then pull it back.

For some reason, it makes Credence abruptly remember why he’s actually meant to be here this evening: the dinner. Percival’s guests will definitely be wondering where they are by this point. He feels a pang in his chest, knowing that he won’t be able to join the table after all to meet Percival’s friends. He has to look after Modesty now.

He strokes his own hand through Modesty’s hair and then gently pushes her back enough to be able to look her in the face. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s go home. What are you even doing here tonight?”

“Oh,” she says, “I was playing with Hester. Then I saw you arrive and I followed you. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Credence says, running his fingers through her soft blonde hair again, comforted as much as comforting. “Who’s Hester?”

“Newt and Tina’s girl,” Percival supplies quietly.

“Ah.” Credence thinks about it for a moment. It’s rare that Modesty gets to enjoy the company of other children and it makes for a lonely, boring life for her during the summer on the estate when she’s not at school. “Well,” he says, “you could always go back to playing with Hester, if you want.”

“Really? I can? She’s so much fun and she showed me this book and there are pictures of animals I’ve never seen before and—”

Modesty pauses, biting her lip as if afraid she’s said too much. She isn’t given to excited outbursts like that normally and Credence knows their Ma—busy with this evening’s dinner preparations still, probably—can’t be aware that Modesty is here playing with the child of a witch and wizard. He’s hardly going to tell their mother about it though, _especially_ not if Modesty is now going to be guarding his own secret until he and Percival figure out what they’re going to do.

It just saddens him that she felt she had to censor herself like that. She doesn’t need to, not with him of all people. If anything, he’d want to hear more enthusiasm from her about socialising with a magical child. It’s all proof that Ma hasn’t swayed her totally against the community that he’s a part of, albeit peripherally.

“Sounds brilliant,” he says. “I bet she’s great fun. Maybe you should go wash your face and then find Hester to look at that book some more?”

Modesty’s mouth curves into a bright smile and Credence returns it fondly. He angles his head toward the library door as if to say ‘go on then’ and Modesty leans forward to kiss his cheek.

“Bye, Credence.” Her gaze moves from him to Percival then and Credence feels him tense up at his side. “Goodnight, Mister Graves,” she says, shy and formal again. “I’m sorry about what I said before.”

Percival’s shoulders drop on hearing that and he relaxes. His much larger hand dwarfs Modesty’s when he extends it for a somber shake. “Think nothing of it,” he says. “I just want you to know that I really do love your brother very much, just like you do. Goodnight, Miss Modesty.”

She flashes another grin at them both and then she’s running through the door, leaving them behind.

Percival gets to his feet first after she’s gone and he lowers his hands to offer them to Credence. With a smile, Credence takes them and lets Percival pull him up. Percival doesn’t let go when he stands, just twines their fingers together more securely between their bodies and dips his head forward to press his lips to Credence’s. He keeps the kiss light, mouth closed, and Credence’s eyes flutter shut at the sweetness of it.

“It’ll be okay,” Percival says when he pulls back, leaving Credence quite dazed even from such a chaste kiss. “Everything will be okay.”

Credence nods, running his thumbs over Percival’s knuckles. He can almost believe it.

“You’re still going to come to dinner, aren’t you?” Percival asks. He uses their joined hands to draw Credence even closer into him until their chests brush. “Please say yes, I don’t think I could bear being parted from you so soon after this.”

He raises his eyes to the ceiling and then looks left and right to encompass the library and what they shared in it. Credence understands him completely. He doesn’t want to be separated from Percival from this moment forward. Doesn’t want to have to let go of his hands or lose the heat of his body or have to refrain from kissing him again.

He doesn’t particularly want to go and have dinner with people who don’t and can’t know about this magnificent shift in their relationship, but it’s the most he _can_ have with Percival, right now.

He can’t have what he does want, which is to drag Percival off to somewhere much more private than this room turned out to be and undress him in order to explore every beautiful inch of him. He wants to kiss him for hours—not just his lips, but his throat and his navel and the insides of his wrists and elbows and the points of his hipbones and even the soles of his _feet_ —and he wants to learn all the different ways their bodies can fit together, every single position in which he can cherish the man he loves and who loves him in return.

Percival _loves_ him. He can’t stop thinking about it, can’t stop replaying the words Percival said first to him and then to Modesty just now.

Percival loves him.

“Of course I’m coming to dinner,” he says.

Percival squeezes his hands in gratitude and then lifts them to his mouth to kiss the knuckles reverently.

 

* * *

 

When they enter the dining room—together, because it seemed somehow more suspicious to enter separately a few minutes apart—Percival’s guests are all waiting, as expected. His step-mother is present at the table, which Credence was _not_ expecting. Keeping to the gardens as he does and avoiding them as she does, they rarely saw one another even before her husband’s death and Credence had assumed she was still playing the part of an alcoholic recluse since. That was probably quite naive of him, thinking about it. It’s been nearly two months now since Percival returned home. A lot can change in that time.

Credence’s eyes track her tremulous hand as it alights on her wineglass to raise it to her lips. No longer a recluse, perhaps, but still an alcoholic.

She sits at the right hand of Grindelwald where he has presumptuously ensconced himself at one end of the table, opposite the seat Percival should now take. On his left sits another woman who must be Tina Scamander. She’s pretty, Credence thinks, kind-looking and boyish with her dark hair kept in a short bob that contrasts with Mrs. Graves’s longer, much more feminine curls. Her dress is simpler than Mrs. Graves’s gaudy red one and more elegant for it, to Credence’s mind, in a shimmering slate-grey colour that matches the rumpled pocket square in the breast pocket of the man sitting beside her. He can only be Newt, her husband. He looks kind as well, somehow. His sandy hair flops over his forehead and his eyes dart around anxiously beneath, but their shifting inspires empathy in Credence rather than suspicion.

He’s anxious too.

Newt and Tina are both wearing grim expressions, but Credence still feels more positive in his first impressions of them than he did on first seeing Grindelwald. He suspects their grimness might have something to do with the diplomat anyway.

“Mister Graves,” Grindelwald drawls, breaking off whatever topic of conversation he had been dominating when they came in. “So good of you to finally join us. Did you get lost?”

Credence looks to Percival at that and finds his face is shuttered in response to the taunting. He smiles placidly and Credence marvels at how the one man he knows better than any other can become almost unrecognisable to him when in Grindelwald’s presence.

“Lost a cufflink,” Percival says smoothly, tapping one of his wrists. “Credence here was kindly helping me look for it. My father gave them to me and they hold a lot of sentimental value.”

Percival’s step-mother is already too drunk to see that for the lie it is and her wine-exaggerated features don’t change—she continues to smile in a dreamy, vague fashion as the falsehood leaves his lips.

Meanwhile, Credence knows Percival would never wear anything his father gave him, much less care if he were to lose it.

He jumps slightly when Percival’s hand finds his lower back and guides him across the room. The gesture won’t be seen by the people at the table, luckily, from their seated vantage points.

The heat of Percival’s hand even through his clothes kindles the embers of desire that are still smouldering in Credence’s stomach. The touch feels both wonderful and terrifying in how illicit it is in company.

To his surprise, Percival’s next affectionate gesture _can_ be seen by his guests—he pulls out Credence’s chair for him, the one beside his step-mother. Credence glances over his shoulder and raises his eyebrows meaningfully, but Percival only gives a subtle shrug in reply, the left corner of his mouth quirking upwards.

“Thank you,” Credence mumbles when he’s seated. He’s across the table from Newt, whose eyes flick up to him and then back down to the polished cutlery his right hand is fiddling with. Newt gives a gentle smile, the expression clearly directed at him, even if it was physically directed at the silverware.

Credence smiles back and drops his own gaze. It lands on the napkin laid out for him and he picks it up to dab at his lower lip, which feels wet and tastes disconcertingly metallic. When he takes the cloth away to look at it, he sees what he expects to: a damning spot of scarlet blood staining the white fabric. He hurriedly folds it over to get rid of that evidence, breathing hard at the vivid reminder of biting his lip as Percival’s hand brought him to climax.

Percival takes his own seat then, but instead of sitting at the head of the table opposite Grindelwald like he ought to, he sits himself down beside Credence with no one facing him. That choice is a pointed snub to Grindelwald and Credence wishes he wouldn’t goad the man so obviously. He seems both dangerous and easily piqued—never a good combination.

The other reason for Percival sitting beside him becomes apparent when Percival’s hand gives his knee a quick, encouraging squeeze. He wanted to be close by during this dinner.

“Good to have you with us, sir,” Tina says quietly. Sincerely, Credence believes.

Percival laughs, matching her sincerity. He looks and sounds like himself again, the curve of his mouth a familiar one to Credence. “How many times, Tina? You really should call me by my name when you’re a guest in my house.”

“Old habits,” she says, grinning. Her eyes move to Credence next. “So you must be Credence! I’ve heard a lot about you. Well, not a _lot_ , because this is Graves we’re talking about, but still... a bit about you. Which is telling in itself.”

“Tina,” Percival grumbles, and when Credence looks to him he sees two spots of pink high on his cheeks. Despite having just confirmed their feelings in the library, Credence still finds himself astounded to see Percival blushing over him, to know that Percival has talked about him to other people in his life. It makes Credence feel oddly tangible. It makes him feel _real_ in the world, like he has an impact with people he’s never met before. He wonders how many other strangers might know his name and parts of his life just from talking to Percival.

“I hear you’re quite the gardener,” Newt says, his English accent catching Credence off-guard. “I have an interest in Herbology too! Do you know much about Bowtruckles, Credence?”

Tina’s hand covers her husband’s on the tabletop. “I’m pretty sure he deals with No-Maj plants here, Newt. Don’t confuse him.”

“Ah, yes. You’re right.”

What looks like a green shoot slithers out of Newt’s breast pocket and Newt quickly tucks it back in. _Strange_ , Credence thinks, but then he’s never sat with so many witches and wizards at once before. Who knows what tricks they have up their sleeves or concealed in their pockets?

He’s completely distracted from dwelling on that oddity then by the feeling of warm skin against his hand. He glances down to see Percival’s fingers brushing over his.

Credence sucks in a breath and holds it for a moment, nerves suddenly ablaze. Percival doesn’t move to take hold of his hand; he’s simply touching it. Caressing him, really, because he wants to and because he can now, it seems. The very idea that Percival wants to touch him so badly leaves Credence light-headed.

Soft fingertips continue to skim over the back of his hand. Every touch is light, almost unbearably tender, and a tingling excitement spreads all through Credence from head to foot, pulsing within him to keep time with his heart. Those embers in his belly are being stoked again and the heat trickles down worryingly towards his groin.

When he looks up again to Percival’s face, Percival is studiously not looking at him, focused instead on Grindelwald diagonally across the table from them. His eyebrows are furrowed, the expression of concentration at odds with his absent stroking of Credence’s skin.

Credence realises that Grindelwald is talking and forces his awareness to expand to the room at large again.

“—won’t mind my calling back to our earlier conversation today, Mister Graves, but I really do want to ask more about this vote your Congress are going to have about Rappaport’s Law.”

“I don’t mind,” Percival says. “Ask whatever you want and I’ll endeavour to answer well.”

As he speaks, he rubs his thumb slowly over the webbing between Credence’s thumb and index finger. Credence shivers under the repetitive motion. His face feels like it must be flaming and he thanks the heatwave for the first time since it began for giving him something to blame it on if questioned.

He wrestles for a while with the inappropriate urge to let out a pleased sigh for Percival’s benefit, knowing he likely holds far more of his focus than Grindelwald does.

Grindelwald leans forward in his chair and props his elbows on the table, resting his chin on his steepled fingers. His mismatched eyes are narrowed. “Do you really think you can sway enough voters to your side to make a difference in the outcome?” he asks.

“I certainly mean to try,” Percival says. “I can only hope that will be good enough.”

Credence hears both the annoyance and the weariness in his tone and seeks to soothe him by stroking across the back of Percival’s fingers before tracing the paths of the veins that adorn the dorsum of his hand. The hair on it soft under the pad of his thumb. Setting his teeth against his tongue, he holds back all his devoted words, assurances that Percival is right on this and he _is_ good enough, that it’s everyone else who is in the wrong.

“I mean you no offence,” Grindelwald says, a simpering duplicity wrapped around the preface, “but I must admit that I hope you are unsuccessful. I think repealing that law in America would be disastrous. Integration is simply impossible, as much as I would like to believe otherwise. Although I disapprove of having to hide our power from the Muggles, I don’t disapprove of our cultures remaining separate. Befriending and especially _marrying_ them seems like a fool’s errand, to me.”

“Everyone is entitled to their own opinion,” Percival says. He sounds cordial, but Credence knows every temperature of Percival’s voice now, from mild interest to warm friendliness to burning passion. This is a cold dismissal.

Credence finds he likes how inconspicuously cutting Percival can be. Hidden beneath the table, he turns his hand over and hooks his littlest finger around Percival’s, stroking up and down the length of it. It’s far more suggestive than Percival’s earlier touches and he hears Percival’s breathing catch. Credence thrills at his own courage, at the squirming sensation in the pit of his stomach.

Their fingers break apart guiltily at the noise of the doors to the dining room opening. Three members of staff come through bearing plates of food and Credence recognises two of the women as Marie and Ruth.

The final one is his mother.

Dread replaces all arousal immediately, the feeling morphing into a sickly churning in Credence’s gut. He grips the edge of the table as he waits for her to see him, heart pounding and the need to _escape_ rushing through him. Ma freezes when her eyes meet his and they just stare at each other, unmoving.

At Credence’s side, Percival is equally taut, the line of his shoulders raising slightly. It reminds Credence of an animal with its hackles up. Percival is making himself larger and more threatening—he’s already on the defensive, ready to strike.

The others at the table are oblivious to the cause of the tension, but they all pick up on it, save for Percival’s step-mother, who has her level of inebriation as an excuse. Tina frowns and Newt’s eyes shift about even more. Grindelwald looks intrigued, but his posture remains loose and uncaring. He wants to be entertained.

She won’t cause a scene, Credence tells himself, hunching down in his chair as if he could make himself smaller. She _can’t_ , his mind insists.

But she does.

She sets the two plates she was carrying down on the end of the table and storms over to Credence. Her fingers go to his right ear and _pull_ until the pain becomes so sharp that Credence has to get out of his seat. He can’t suppress his agonised yelp.

Percival rises from his own chair at once. Although his eyes are swimming with tears, Credence sees a blur that can only be his hand flicking out and then suddenly the pain of Ma tugging on his ear stops worsening and just becomes a dull throb. She’s let him go.

“Mister Graves!” Tina shouts.

Credence understands the panicked note in her voice when he looks down, hand cupped over his ear and blinking hard, to see his mother on the floor.

It looks like Percival has used a stunning spell on her… in front of two members of his No-Maj staff. The spell can only have been mild though because Ma’s eyes remain open and she’s still conscious. Tina jumps up from her chair and darts around the table to help her to her feet. Credence’s dread expands when his mother turns her fury in his direction, head swivelling to where he stands as if he were the one who lashed out at her.

Fear fills him and clogs his throat until it feels like something needs to spill out of his mouth to relieve the pressure. He feels like he almost _wants_ to be sick.

Percival’s hand moves again.

“What happened, Mary Lou?” asks Marie, looking at her with a worried frown.

“Did you faint?” asks Ruth, but her tone is flat and devoid of concern. She’s never much cared for the other woman.

Credence’s dread recedes a little at that—Percival must have cast memory charms on them both to cover himself. He won’t get into trouble. Credence, meanwhile, has never been in _more_ trouble.

“Marie, Ruth, I want you to leave now, please,” Percival says, quiet but authoritative. Marie looks to the doors, Ruth at the plates in her hands, and neither of them move to leave. They share a vacant, confused expression like lost sheep. Partly the work of the memory charm, Credence assumes.

“Now!” Percival shouts. It’s the first time Credence has ever heard him raise his voice at any of his employees and the two women scurry out of the dining room without needing any further encouragement.

With that distraction gone, Percival turns back to face Credence’s mother. His expressive face could be carved from stone, the visage of a wrathful archangel meting out God’s divine punishment.

“If you ever, _ever_ lay a finger on him again,” he says, “I will kill you without thinking twice.”

Mary Lou’s response is to spit on the floor at her feet. Tina releases her shoulders where she had been steadying her then, recoiling in disgust.

“Vile heathen,” Ma says, face twisted and ugly with hatred, “your threats don’t frighten me. Come, Credence, we’re leaving this—”

She stops her tirade when one of the doors opens again and Modesty bursts through it, a piece of paper clutched in her hand.

Credence’s stomach drops, his jaw doing the same. It can’t be his indecent note to Percival, he thinks desperately, begging any deity that happens to be listening: _please_ , not now, not with all this happening. She _wouldn’t_ , surely she wouldn’t after all they said to each other earlier.

“Hester’s run away!” Modesty cries. “Look!”

As the person she obviously trusts most, Modesty runs to Credence and gives him the paper, throwing her arms around his waist for comfort. He holds the note in his shaking hands, eyes strangely sharp from the recent surge of adrenaline, and reads, “I have gone out looking for my new friend Modesty. Back soon. Hester.”

Tina lets out a strangled noise and comes to Credence to take the letter, which he hands over helplessly. Newt stands up and joins her, their heads bent close together while they read the letter before they turn it over as if the back might have any further clues to where their daughter has gone.

“We’ll find her,” Percival says. He effortlessly takes control of the situation, giving out orders. “Newt, Tina, you go looking together in the garden with Credence. He knows these grounds better than anyone. Gellert, you can wait here or you can accompany me to search down by the lake on the way to the cottage at the end of the estate.”

“I want to assist in any way I can,” Grindelwald says, getting to his feet. He actually does seem keen to help, to Credence’s surprise.

“Thank you,” Percival says, sounding just as surprised by his readiness. He turns to Ma next. “Miss Barebone, you should find Chastity if she’s here still and then you should take Modesty home for the night. We’ll speak tomorrow about what happened here this evening. But if you _dare_ hurt that little girl between now and then, rest assured: I will know.”

Ma sneers at him. She holds out a demanding hand and Modesty looks up at Credence uncertainly from where she previously had her head pressed against his side as she hugged him. “Go on,” he tells her softly. “I’ll be home to tuck you in as soon as we’ve found Hester.”

Modesty’s lower lip wobbles, but she nods her acquiescence, bravely holding back tears as she goes and takes Ma’s hand.

After they’ve left, the only person to address still is Mrs. Graves, who looks to be halfway asleep where she’s still sat in her chair despite all the commotion.

Percival’s lip curls, one hand doing the same at his side. “Damn you,” he growls at her, “what is the _point_ of you?”

He shakes his head and turns to lead the way out of the house and into the grounds, pulling his wand from inside his jacket as he goes. Newt, Tina, and Grindelwald all draw their wands too and Credence regrets leaving his at home. Not that he could probably do much good with it.

When they reach the front entrance, Percival opens the door to reveal the darkened expanse of the gardens. The fountain is barely visible in the distance with only the moon and stars to illuminate it at this late hour. Finding a little girl in the gloom will be difficult.

Percival murmurs “ _Lumos_ ,” and the end of his wand lights up. The others all follow suit while Credence looks on, shamefaced at his inadequacy in comparison to them.

“If either group finds Hester,” Percival says, “they’ll send up a jet of red sparks so the others can find them. Agreed?”

Everyone nods.

“Best of luck,” Percival says. He looks back and catches Credence’s eye then, a sad smile ticking his mouth up just a little. Credence meets his gaze steadily, trying to convey competence in spite of how shaken he is by everything that’s just happened. By how fast things have changed.

His world has tipped on its axis tonight and he feels hopelessly unmoored by the uncertainty of his future, by his worry over the disappearance of Newt and Tina’s child. But he has something to anchor himself to here. Holding Percival’s gaze, however briefly, evokes the same feelings as Percival holding his hands in the library, kissing him gently, and promising that everything would be okay.

All too soon, Percival breaks their fleeting eye contact and he inclines his head at Grindelwald to get him to follow him out into the night, leaving Credence to take the two anxious parents on their own search.

Credence looks at Newt and Tina’s faces, both of them pale and drawn with stress, and he resolves to forget his troubles and focus only on theirs now.

“Everything will be okay,” he says, trying to give it the precise heartening inflection Percival did earlier.

It doesn’t sound even half as reassuring to his ears.


	6. June, 1937 (4)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a spoilery-ish warning in the note at the end of this part. Please look if you think you might need it!

The night air is dry and warm against Credence’s face. Heat seeps up from the ground where the earth has absorbed the sun’s rays all day long without complaint before finally deciding to give some of it back. With the hot air rising, mist has formed in its stead and a layer of white has descended over the estate.

Between the darkness and that enshrouding mist, the gardens that Credence is so familiar with seem strange and wild, full of secrets he would normally be privy to during the daytime. There’s a silvery, unknowable quality to his surroundings now. The grass and leaves shine in the benevolent glow of the moon above them and the two points of light created by Newt and Tina’s wands.

As he leads the couple, Credence can’t help wishing one of them would say something. He understands their forbidding features, their determined strides, and their mostly-steady wand arms, but the lack of words in the air unnerves him for reasons he struggles to name.

The hasty swishing of their footsteps over the grass is the main sound that can be heard, punctuated by the almost call-and-response hooting of an owl and the unmistakable piercing cries of a fox.

Although Credence doesn’t seek idle chatter at a time like this, he’d appreciate the comfort of a human voice cutting through the shadows. He craves the sound of Percival’s voice in particular to soothe his fraying nerves. That deep, beloved cadence is one he can always find solace in, but Percival is far away from him now.

The soft trickling of water in the Triton fountain is a welcome relief from the monotony when they pass it. The sea-God is oblivious to their troubles though, head thrown back with the conch he carries raised to his lips as jets of water pour forth. Credence envies the statue his complacency.

They search and search, the three of them, but to no avail. Shouts of Hester’s name don’t elicit any reply. They don’t find the little girl in amongst the foliage of dense trees or behind neatly-trimmed hedges.

Tina is the first to speak, when time marches on and their search begins to look increasingly futile. “Why would she go looking for Modesty when she was in the house?” she asks, voice tight. “I can’t understand it.”

Credence’s insides attempt to invert themselves on hearing her say that and he sucks in a breath at the twisting sensation. He’s gone from wishing for speech to the precise opposite, wishing now that Tina had never spoken at all.

He can’t tell her that it’s partially his fault. He can’t tell her that Hester would never have left the house if Modesty hadn’t followed Credence when he arrived.

His stolen moments with Percival in the library have had consequences he never could have envisaged.

Ears burning with shame at having to conceal the truth, Credence says, “I’m sure there was a reason why she thought Modesty had left and gone home.”

If that were so, Credence suspects Percival and Grindelwald may stand the better chance of finding Hester in the area they were going to scour. Modesty might have told her where she lived and, despite not knowing the grounds, Hester would have just kept walking towards the bottom of the gardens if Modesty had indicated to her where their cottage could be found.

When nearly an hour has passed and they’ve covered everywhere he can think of, Credence realises something no one had thought of earlier:

Besides the drunken and frankly useless Mrs. Graves, there’ll be no one waiting at the main house if Hester were to come back to it.

He opens his mouth, half in alarm at how remiss they’ve been, half to give voice to the perturbing thought, and then shuts it again. He doesn’t want to give Newt and Tina any more anxiety by just blurting out the mistake they’ve made.

After a long moment’s consideration, he can frame the words more carefully. “Perhaps we should head back,” he says. “Just in case Hester’s returned to the house.”

It’s awful, watching the dawning hope in Newt and Tina’s faces. Credence has given them something to latch onto now and his heart sinks, knowing they’ll be devastated if they go back and find their daughter _isn’t_ there. He’s still managed to say the wrong thing.

“She’s sensible enough for that,” Newt says. “More like Tina than me.”

“Still reckless enough to go out by herself in the first place,” Tina says bitterly.

That sounds like the start of a possible argument and Credence quickly jabs a finger in the direction of the house. “It’s this way,” he says, hoping for a return to their previous silence. It was uneasy, but far less uneasy than the thought of the couple being stressed enough to start sniping at one another. That won’t help.

The lights that illuminate a few windows in the house are a welcoming beacon to draw them back to it as they get nearer. Credence is glad for the sight of their warm, golden hue and, for once, the house actually looks _homely_ to him. He increases the length of his stride. Maybe Hester really will be there, he thinks, hope rising in his chest. It’s not outside the realm of possibility.

The three of them ascend the steps of the front entrance swiftly, Tina’s heels clacking against the stone in a fretful rhythm that’s echoed beneath Credence’s ribs.

 _Let her be here,_ he prays.

She isn’t. They find Percival’s step-mother where they left her, completely asleep now in her chair in the dining room. On the table, the two plates that Mary Lou had set down earlier sit untouched, forlorn, the food on them already beginning to congeal unpleasantly.

After checking that room, they split up to check the various others. Credence remains downstairs while Newt and Tina go up. He’s careful not to linger in the library after finding it empty.

When he reunites with the Scamanders again in the foyer, Newt is biting one of his thumbnails and Tina’s lips are pressed together in a flat line.

“I’ll go out again,” Credence says. “You wait here in case Hester comes back and I’ll go towards the end of the garden where P—” He breaks off even as he begins to speak Percival’s first name, but it seems silly now to be worried about their over-familiarity and what Newt and Tina might think of it, “—where Percival and Grindelwald should be.”

Newt nods, but Tina shakes her head. “No,” she says, “I’m coming with—”

The sound of screaming stops her protest instantly. It’s the scream of a young girl, high-pitched and clearly distraught.

Tina’s already ashen face pales further and Credence feels his heart begin to race. The screaming gets louder and closer until actual words can be made out: “Credence! _Credence_ , are you here?”

It’s not Hester. It’s Modesty.

Without hesitating, they all run out to the front entrance towards the source of the shouting. Tina takes the lead with Newt loping along behind her. Credence lags at the back, weighed down by his growing terror.

When they get to the front door, Credence is surprised to see Grindelwald first rather than Modesty like he was expecting. He’s even more shocked to see that Grindelwald is carrying the limp form of his mother in his arms. Ma’s eyes are open and staring and her face is white as a sheet, but before Credence can question any of it, Modesty is launching herself straight into his embrace, sobbing and shaking. She babbles incoherently at him and he strains to understand her through the thick, wet noise of her crying.

“Modesty,” he says, “calm down, it’s okay. Just take a breath and tell me what’s happened.”

“He’s— he k-killed her. Credence, she’s _dead_.”

With what feels like a yawning abyss opening up in his stomach, Credence looks at Ma where Grindelwald is carrying her, then up to the rueful expression on Grindelwald’s face.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. “There was nothing I could do when I found them.”

Credence _really_ looks then and it becomes all too clear that Modesty is right. There can be no other explanation for Ma’s glassy, unblinking stare, for the unnatural pallor of her face and the dangling of her toneless limbs.

She’s dead.

Credence has imagined her dying on many an occasion. Besides his lust for Percival, it was always the ultimate sin of his life—wishing his adoptive mother harm. But wish it he did, and frequently at that. He mainly used to fantasise about her just not waking up one day or perhaps having a heart attack or a stroke during one of her fits of rage against him. He didn’t focus much on the way she would die so much as he did on the consequences. The sheer relief he imagined he might feel was enough to sustain him through the pain and humiliation of any of her beatings.

Strangely, he doesn’t feel relieved to see her dead now. He just feels numb, hollowed-out. It’s not grief, because there’s no love or warmth in his heart for his so-called ‘mother’ that could have turned into that. It’s just the overwhelming combination of shock and worry that’s sluicing icily through his veins. It’s the first time he’s felt so cold since the summer began.

Sobs overcome Modesty’s thin frame and Credence holds her close and makes shushing sounds almost automatically while his head spins with confusion, overloaded.

“How did this happen?” he asks Grindelwald.

“Is there somewhere I can set her down?” Grindelwald raises the body in his arms by an inch and gives a pained wince. “I’d use magic, but I don’t want to frighten the girl.”

“The floor will do,” Credence says at once, mouth going ahead of his brain, and he cringes at his own casual cruelty and how it must look.

He glances back to Newt and Tina and finds them holding onto each other for support. Tina’s fingers are clenched in Newt’s suit jacket, his hands are gently wrapped around her upper arms, and they wear matching expressions of horror. If they were afraid when their daughter was just missing in an unfamiliar place, then Grindelwald bringing a dead woman back to the house while she’s _still_ missing can only have them terrified beyond belief. It would be better for them both if the body was out of sight.

“The sitting room is that way,” Credence says, angling his head towards it. “She can go on the chaise lounge.”

Grindelwald nods and heads off in that direction, returning shortly thereafter looking shaken and impossibly even paler than normal. His agitated appearance now is a far cry from the slick diplomat who sat at the dinner table baiting Percival earlier this evening.

 _Percival_. Where is he? Credence needs him now like never before. He aches to have him by his side, calm and composed, solid and safe. He’s helpless in this darkness without Percival to guide him through it. _Come back_ , Credence thinks, as hard as he can, wishing the thought could carry like a shout across the distance between them and find its way to Percival. _Please, come back._

“Did you see Hester at all?” Newt asks, and burning guilt cascades all through Credence for thinking to ask about Percival’s whereabouts before the child’s.

“No sign of the girl, I’m afraid,” Grindelwald says, grimacing and running a hand through his white hair.

Modesty screws her face up and lets out a few more sobs, head bent towards her chest as it jerks with them. “No, b-but she’s out there still and he’s probably going to k—”

“Who?” Credence says, before she can finish that awful thought in front of Newt and Tina. “Who do you think it was that hurt Ma?”

Somehow, Credence knows what she’s going to say before it leaves her mouth. Foreboding surges within him when her glistening eyes come up to meet his and her teeth sink into her lower lip as if she doesn’t want to tell him.

There’s only one person unaccounted for.

“M-Mister Graves,” she whispers.

For all of his foreboding, it’s actually a relief to hear her say his name, in a way. It’s so patently untrue that the vice-like grip of fear on Credence’s heart loosens.

Percival would never kill anyone. She must be mistaken.

“We got separated,” Grindelwald explains. “I don’t know how. One minute he and I were searching together down by the lake and then the mist got thicker and I lost sight of him. I kept looking alone for a while, but I was probably going in circles. Then I heard the screaming and I found… well, you know what I found.”

Credence sets his hands on Modesty’s shoulders and gives them a gentle squeeze. “I don’t know what happened to Ma,” he says, holding her at arm’s length and meeting her eyes steadily, “but you must be wrong about Mister Graves. He couldn’t have done this.”

“But I saw him,” Modesty wails. “It was definitely him!”

Credence has no answer for that, besides yet another disagreement.

“Where is Graves?” Grindelwald asks, frowning. “Has he not come back yet?”

“No,” Newt answers in his quiet, measured way, “but that doesn’t mean anything.”

“I’m going to get help,” Tina says. Unlike her husband, her voice shakes. “We need more Aurors here to help with… with whatever this is. I need my daughter found.”

Newt nods and the couple disentangle themselves. As soon as Tina is free, she Disapparates with a crack, making Modesty whimper and press her face against the fabric of Credence’s shirt. Whether she was scared by the noise or the ability, Credence can’t tell. Probably both. She knows about his magic, but Apparating isn’t something he can do (or would do, in front of her). She hasn’t seen anyone just disappear in front of her eyes before. For his part, Credence has become used to Percival doing it, but the noise of him Apparating and Disapparating is much fainter.

“I should go out looking again,” Credence says, hands flexing at his sides. They itch with purposelessness.

He wants nothing more than to make himself useful, to find Hester, find Percival, and have things put right. Ma will still be dead, but that’s no great loss to him. If he can just get the child back safe and sound and have Percival beside him again, he knows everything will be all right. He’s scarcely been more certain of anything in his life.

“No!” Modesty cries, clinging to his shirt and pulling it from his trousers in the process. “No, Credence, you can’t go!”

“ _I’ll_ go out looking,” Newt says. “You should stay with Modesty and wait here for Tina and the Aurors to come.”

Grindelwald shakes his head and waves a flat hand downwards as if calling for calm. “We should all wait here,” he says, sounding infinitely rational and persuasive. “There’s no sense in any of us going back out to get lost or _worse_ at this time, especially not if Graves is still out there.”

Credence bristles at his tone and choice of words. “What do you mean by that? Percival isn’t dangerous and he hasn’t done anything wrong.”

The sympathetic look Grindelwald gives him then only makes Credence grit his teeth harder, hands curling into fists. “My dear boy, your own _sister_ has said she saw him kill your mother. You heard him threaten to do just that earlier. Stunning her like he did in front of the muggles, the man looked unhinged.”

“For coming to my defence? That’s unhinged?”

“Gentlemen,” Newt’s soft voice cuts in. “This isn’t the time. We should—”

The sound of six people materialising at once in front of them makes Modesty shriek and Credence cups his hands over her ears, pressing her face into his stomach to stop her looking back at the newcomers and becoming even more panicked.

Tina—still clad in her incongruous shimmering evening gown—stands out in the midst of the other five witches and wizards who have arrived, all sporting dark trenchcoats, fedora hats, and dour features.

One dark-skinned witch isn’t wearing a hat though and instead has a black headwrap adorning her head. She stands out for that, but she also has an understated air of poise and authority about her that sets her apart too. It’s the same effect Percival has. To Credence, she seems like a leader.

“Madam President,” Grindelwald says, inclining his head to the witch and proving Credence’s intuition correct.

She must be Seraphina Picquery. Credence falters at being faced with the _President_ of Wizarding America, a woman he’s heard Percival talk about before with both respectful admiration and fond disregard born of long acquaintance. It’s almost like knowing her, a little.

He’s unsure if he should bow to her or not. Part of him doesn’t much care for etiquette though right now, too preoccupied with where Percival is when his name is being besmirched here by Grindelwald and his fanciful sister. He’s already talked back to Grindelwald without fear and he’ll offend the President too if he has to.

The all-encompassing need to protect Percival from accusations of wrongdoing have made Credence bold to the point of reckless insouciance. He hardly recognises himself. But, for once in his life, Credence is definitely _proud_ of himself.

His mother is dead. He answers to no one now.

“Mister Grindelwald,” Picquery greets, ignoring Credence for the meantime. “It’s good to see you again, although this is an unfortunate circumstance to be meeting under. Where is the dead No-Maj?”

However little Credence cared for Mary Lou Barebone, something about hearing her referred to in that dismissive way still rankles. And in front of Modesty, too. “Our _mother_ is in the sitting room,” he says, “and she _is_ dead, so please show some respect.”

Picquery’s eyes land on him, cool and disinterested initially before something like recognition dawns in them. “You’ll be Credence Barebone then.” Her appraising gaze flicks over him and Credence plants his feet firmly, holding onto Modesty even tighter. “No wonder...” Picquery begins, but she shakes her head and doesn’t say anything further.

“She’s this way,” Grindelwald says, extending an arm in the right direction to show her through to Mary Lou’s body.

Picquery and the Aurors all go with him, while Tina remains, going to Newt’s side again and talking with him in hushed whispers.

“Are you all right?” Credence asks Modesty. This moment of relative privacy is a good moment to check in with her.

She cranes her neck back to look up at him. “No,” she whispers. “I’m scared, Credence. Who are all these people?”

“They’re like the police,” he says, trying to frame it in a way she can understand, in a way that might comfort her. “They’re going to find Hester and they’ll investigate what happened to Ma. Where’s Chastity right now?”

“At home. She left ages ago after she was done helping out.”

That’s one good thing then. At least one of his sisters is far removed from all of this. Although, how he’ll explain any of it to her later is beyond him. That’s another worry for another time. There are too many present ones clamouring for his attention.

“They’ll want to question Modesty on what she saw,” Tina says, her voice cutting through his thoughts.

“She’s a child,” Credence says. “She doesn’t know what she saw.”

Modesty lets go of him at that, backing away a few paces to gaze at him with wide, mournful eyes. “Credence, I _saw_ him. It was Mister Graves, I keep telling you! Why don’t you believe me, is it because—”

She stops, clearly realising from the alarmed look that Credence can feel his face shaping itself into that she shouldn’t say any more.

Footsteps approach from their left and Grindelwald leads the President and the three Aurors back into the foyer. There’s a tiny, almost imperceptible hint of a smug smile playing around his lips and Credence feels sick to see it. He’s perhaps the only one looking out for that glee. Knowing how Grindelwald loathes Percival’s ideals, of course he’s enjoying the idea of Percival falling from grace. Actively trying to facilitate it, even.

“We want to speak with Modesty,” Picquery declares. She crosses the room and kneels gracefully so that she can sit level with his sister where she stands paralysed, visibly frightened by the imposing woman. “That’s you, right?” Picquery’s voice softens on addressing her.

Credence watches Modesty nod jerkily, but she doesn’t speak.

“My name’s Seraphina. I’m here to try and understand why your mother was hurt tonight, Modesty, but I need your help to do it. Can you tell me what you saw?”

Modesty looks to Credence and he nods, coming to stand behind her and settling a hand on her shoulder. He needs to hear the full story himself, really. “It’s okay,” he says. “These people are going to help. Just tell the _truth_ , Modesty. No rhymes, no embellishments, no adjectives.”

She’s always loved telling stories and Credence has spent a lot of time listening to her spin tales of brave knights rescuing disadvantaged princesses in the past when Ma wasn’t around. Her imagination has been her way of coping with her own misfortune at being stuck as a member of the Barebone family, but he doesn’t want her to use her imagination at all now.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, Modesty begins her account of the night. “Ma was taking me home. She was angry, _really_ angry and my hand was hurting so much from how hard she was holding it. She was saying how much she hates Mister Graves and all witches.”

On saying this, Modesty’s eyes dart up to Picquery guiltily and then fix on the floor.

“She was saying that God would strike Mister Graves down for his sins and that was when he came out of nowhere. H-he said something I didn’t understand and then there was all this really bright green light and then Ma fell and wouldn’t wake up. I screamed and he ran off and then Mister Grindelwald found us.”

“It must have been the killing curse,” one of the Aurors says. A male voice with a Southern drawl to it. “Green light? What else could it be? Graves has really gone off the deep end here.”

“And you’re certain,” Picquery says, ignoring the Auror to speak to Modesty still. “You’re sure it was Mister Graves who did that? He made the green light?”

Modesty nods. “I’ve known him all my life and I _saw_ him. I’m sorry, Credence. You can’t… you can’t love him if he kills people.”

She looks back to him as she says it. Every head turns and does the same. _Everyone_ looks at him and, as Credence looks back, he sees the pity in Newt and Tina’s faces, the shock and the disgust twisting some of the Aurors’ features. Grindelwald looks strangely sympathetic, but Credence knows it must be a ruse—he’ll be suppressing his delight at how the situation has unfolded, probably.

Only Picquery’s expression remains neutral. Perhaps she already had her suspicions about their relationship from whatever Percival had told her about him. Perhaps it just doesn’t make one iota of difference to her, either way.

It hardly matters. All that matters is that they know now. They know that he’s a homosexual, a _criminal,_ and they all think that Percival—the gentlest man Credence knows, the only man he’s ever loved and his closest friend—is a killer.

It’s unbearable. Unthinkable.

And so Credence runs.

He runs out of the foyer, out of the front door and into the night, tears blurring his vision as he goes. Self-preservation kicks in and he comes to a stop before he can blindly fall down the steps leading to the gardens. He has to steady himself with both hands on the balustrade when he starts to feel like he might pass out, already faint from hyperventilation.

His chest heaves as he gasps for air, but he can’t get his breathing under control. Panic and misery have his lungs too tight in their grips.

This night, the best of his life mere hours ago when he was safe and loved and happy—so unbelievably happy in Percival’s arms in the library—has turned into the worst of his life. It’s a nightmare he can’t seem to wake up from and it keeps going from bad to worse.

Why, _why_ is Modesty so convinced she saw Percival kill their mother? She may be fanciful, but would she really make that up or confuse some other man for Percival? Would she be so vehement that it was him if there was any uncertainty over the killer’s identity? Who else _could_ it be, anyway, and what motive would they have?

Percival definitely had a motive.

A seed of doubt cracks open in Credence’s already-constricted chest, the shoots sprouting forth and growing rapidly until they take up all the space that’s left.

“Credence!” calls Tina’s worried voice from behind him. He hears quick, heavy footfalls as people come after him and he blinks hard to get rid of his shameful tears, swiping his forearm over his face.

He contemplates running again, briefly. He could run into the gardens now and he could find Percival and then they could run _together_. It’s a ridiculous, childish notion but the idea consumes him—the two of them, escaping whatever persecution surely lies ahead and going anywhere, anywhere at all, so long as they could stay together.

“Credence,” Tina says, much closer now, but Credence doesn’t turn to see her or who else has joined him in the entrance-way.

Because he can see Percival.

It must be him, although the lone figure coming across the gardens out of the mist and shadows seems exceptionally tall. The reason for that becomes clear as he draws nearer and Credence makes out his achingly familiar shape, with an addition:

There’s a child on his shoulders.

“Hester,” says Newt’s voice at his back. Nobody moves in front of Credence, who remains the closest one to Percival. They must all be as rooted to the spot as he is while Percival continues his approach.

His back is straight even under the weight of the girl he carries. His chin is held up and, when he gets closer still, Credence can see the triumphant expression on his face. His mouth is moving like he’s talking to Hester.

He stops when he climbs the steps up to the house while they all watch. The silence Credence finds himself trapped in is horrific, broken only by his own breathing and the sound of the soles of Percival’s polished shoes slapping against the stone.

When he gets to the top of the stairs, he lifts Hester off of his shoulders and slowly, carefully sets her down. She looks to be about Modesty’s age, maybe a year younger, with tawny hair like her father and dark eyes like her mother. Instead of running to her parents straight away, she takes Percival’s hand and grins up at him.

Credence can only imagine what Newt and Tina’s faces must look like behind him on seeing her, but he can’t shift his gaze from Percival to find out.

He’s smiling. He’s obviously happy to have brought the missing child back safely, but the gentle curve of his mouth shrinks as he looks from person to person over Credence’s shoulders, eyebrows lowering in confusion.

As Credence watches—heart not just breaking but _shattering_ into an infinite number of jagged pieces—he sees the very moment Percival realises that not one person is smiling back at him.

“Hester,” Tina says. “Come here.”

The girl’s smile has died down too and she rushes over to her mother at her beckoning, leaving Percival’s hand hanging limp and empty at his side.

“Percival Graves.” That’s Seraphina Picquery’s clear, cool voice addressing him. Still unable to take his own eyes off Percival’s face, Credence tracks Percival’s gaze as it moves to where Picquery must be. “You stand accused of the murder of a No-Maj woman,” she says next. “Mary Lou Barebone.”

Percival barks a laugh at that. “What? Sera, is this a joke?”

“It’s no joke. It couldn’t be further from a joke, in fact. The woman was found dead by the lake and a witness says you were the one to use a killing curse on her. Please, submit your wand for testing.”

Percival laughs again, but it’s more disbelieving than amused now. His eyes meet Credence’s and Credence can’t do anything but stare back at him helplessly.

Something in his expression makes Percival square his shoulders then and his face turns as blank as a slate. He shakes his head, shrugging slightly. “I lost it at some point during the search for Hester and a summoning charm wouldn’t bring it back. I don’t know why.”

“That’s very convenient,” says another voice—the male Auror who spoke earlier. The sarcasm in his tone is palpable. “We’ll have to find it then, won’t we?”

“Yes, you will,” Percival says, equally condescending. “Thank you for that, Harrington, I’ve always thought you were a real life-saver. Definitely not a backstabbing pure-blood supremacist coward.”

“What did you just—”

“Silence,” Picquery commands, her voice quiet but no less powerful for it. “Harrington, go with Sewell to find Graves’s wand. You know what it’s like, you can’t miss it.”

Percival snorts at that, still not taking the situation as seriously as he should be. When the two Aurors dart off to do the President’s bidding though, Percival’s face sobers and he looks to Credence. “Is she really dead?” he asks. “Are you all right?”

Credence nods, incapable of getting the words out through his abject fear.

Percival takes one step forwards as if to come to him and then immediately takes a few paces back, raising his hands.

Terrified to see him make that gesture, Credence turns his head to find that Picquery and the Auror beside her have both lifted their wands. “No,” he gasps out, stumbling over to put his body between Percival’s and theirs.

As soon as he does, Percival reaches out an arm to sweep Credence aside and then behind himself, turning him from shield into shielded.

“No, Percival—”

“There’s an explanation for all of this,” Percival speaks over him, addressing Picquery. “There has to be, because I didn’t do it. Do you hear me? _I didn’t do it_. Question me with Veritaserum, use Legilimency on me, I don’t care. You’ll see I’m telling the truth.”

Credence is the right way round now to be able to see their opponents. And that’s exactly what they are. Picquery and the remaining Auror, Grindelwald... even Tina and Newt look like they’re judging Percival. Newt’s grip on Hester where he’s hoisted her into his arms appears overly defensive.

If they’re against Percival, they’re against him. Credence steps up closer to Percival’s back. His allegiance will be clear to the onlookers and he wants Percival to be able to feel his proximity, his loyalty, as he guards that vulnerable part of him.

“I looked into the girl’s mind,” Picquery says, “and I saw you. You’re an accomplished Occlumens, Percival. I’ve no doubt you could beat the potion and even _my_ attempts to look inside your head. Whereas the girl was an open book.”

“The girl?” Percival repeats. “ _Modesty_ said I did this? She’s got it wrong; her memories are still only what she thinks she saw. It’s not evidence, Sera, it won’t hold up.”

“It won’t, but there’s still the matter of your missing wand to contend with. You can’t know how much I want to be able to cast _Priori Incantatem_ on it and find no trace of the killing curse.”

“You won’t, because I didn’t cast it. Do you really think I’m _that_ stupid?” Percival asks, voice rising with frustration. “Do you honestly believe I would kill a woman and then come back here as if nothing had happened? Sera, you _know_ me. You know I wouldn’t do this.”

“I do know you. I know exactly how far you would go to protect someone you love.”

Credence’s stomach drops at the reminder that they all know, that their relationship is going to be used against them here. In front of him, he feels Percival stiffen, clearly taken aback by her assertion. Or maybe he isn’t surprised and it’s just defiance. He doesn’t say anything in response to give Credence a clue either way.

“I have to take you in,” Picquery says. Her stern face and voice have both turned soft. Regretful. “I’m sorry, but I have to. Whether you can get around it or not, you do still need to be formally questioned now while we wait for your wand to be found.”

Picquery lifts her chin and the Auror at her side comes over to them, roughly spinning Percival so he’s facing Credence. Percival lets it all happen without struggling, but a wince of pain flashes over his face when the Auror wrenches his arms to bind his hands behind his back with a spell. He just smothers the expression quickly and offers Credence a smile.

Credence’s body moves then without his full consciousness and he watches himself surge forward to clutch at Percival’s lapels. Regaining control of his extremities, he clenches his fingers tighter to hold onto Percival.

“No,” he says. “No, you haven’t done anything wrong, I know you haven’t. They can’t _do_ this.”

“Mister Barebone,” Picquery calls to him, “you have to let him go.”

“It’ll be okay,” Percival says, nodding as if that would somehow strengthen the lie he’s telling. “I’ll fix this and I’ll come back to you, Credence.”

He smiles again, the reassurance so close to believable, and then he bends his head forward to press his mouth against Credence’s, kissing him in front of everyone. Caught off guard, Credence inhales a reflexive breath through his nose. He can feel tears welling in his eyes and he shuts them, wanting to focus on no other sensation besides Percival’s lips against his.

Tightening his grip still further on Percival’s jacket, Credence kisses him as tenderly as he can, despite every instinct screaming for him to press hard, to anchor Percival to him with teeth.

The Auror ends their kiss by pulling Percival away from him abruptly. The fabric of his jacket slips through Credence’s fingers.

“Please,” Credence begs, voice cracking in his desperation. “Don’t take him from—”

Before Credence can finish his sentence, before they can say a proper goodbye, the Auror has Disapparated and taken Percival with him.

Credence falls to his knees. The pain of their impact against the ground is a distant thing, compared to the lingering warmth of _Percival_ on his mouth and the cool tears coursing down his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” Picquery says softly, and then she Disapparates too, leaving Grindelwald, the Scamanders, and Modesty to watch him as he cries his heart out on the floor.

He cries until there are no more tears left in him, until he’s just a pitiful, empty shell, shaking and hyperventilating again. The world turns dark and blotchy as it starts to dissolve before his eyes. He hears a panicked shout of his name, but he ignores it in favour of letting himself fall into the black, welcoming embrace of oblivion.

He’ll be safe there, because he isn’t _here_ , not any longer.

Percival is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: off-screen side-character death.


	7. May, 1940

**_Two years later_ **

_May, 1940 - Northern France_

“All right, Guv?”

Two choices present themselves: a bland “fine”, or the long-winded disheartening truth.

There should be a word beyond tired, Graves thinks. One beyond weary, beyond exhausted, even. Something to explain how his feet once ached until he could cry but now feel numb in a way that he’s grateful for rather than concerned by; something that conveys his blurry, stinging eyes and the unbelievable heaviness of his limbs.

There should be a brief way of communicating the specific dizzy fatigue that dulls his once-sharp brain and his magic along with it. Something that would mean not having to ever describe the horrors imprinted on the insides of his eyelids.

Sometimes he thinks he’s Atlas: condemned to endlessly be down on his knees with the weight of the sky on his shoulders. Other times he imagines himself as Prometheus: chained to a rock and unable to escape having his liver pecked out daily, only for it to regrow so he can do it all again the next day. Either way, he's still being punished for something.

Using extraneous words or references to describe his current physical and mental state is a waste of the precious strength he’s trying so hard to conserve though, and talking to the two No-Maj Corporals who follow him without question always drains him.

The pair of strays latched onto him not long after he got separated himself from the Wizarding unit he was with during the retreat and they’ve stuck with him ever since as if he were some kind of meal-ticket. Despite his lower rank as a Private and the fact that he’s a “Yank”, both of the Englishmen defer to his every judgement. Whether that’s because of his naturally commanding air left over from his position at MACUSA, his grasp of rudimentary French, or his ability to read the fucking map because he actually paid attention in his training... he isn’t sure. Probably all three.

He’s glad of the company, even if it does consist mostly of curse-filled ranting, poorly-timed sexual innuendo, and jabs against America’s unwillingness to get involved in the war until it affects them. The swearing and the innuendo occasionally make him laugh and he agrees with their position on his country. What he’s _less_ glad of is his inability to use magic freely in their presence. He doesn’t want to ruin either of their already frazzled brains with too many memory charms.

“I’m fine,” he eventually says. It’s the best option. After all, no single word will ever give even a flavour of his bone-deep desire to just be able to _stop_.

Taylor nods, satisfied with that answer to his question. He begins to whistle “Pack Up Your Troubles” cheerfully while Bryce looks at Graves askance, unconvinced. Graves ignores him.

Much as he wants to, he _can’t_ just stop. Not yet. He has one purpose, one aim, and he won’t ever stop until he reaches it.

He’s walked for countless miles now and there are many more ahead to reach Dunkirk. With a piece of shrapnel stuck beneath his ribs that moves with every breath he draws in, he’s going to need all of his dwindling energy diverted to the healing spell he’s been feebly trying to sustain unnoticed. He has none to spare for a worried No-Maj soldier who should be more worried about himself.

He looks down at the map in his hand for the third time, blinking and squeezing his eyes shut in the hopes of clearing them. The map isn’t his—he pried it and a revolver from the corpse of a Captain they passed… somewhere. Some time ago. He doesn’t know anymore; he’s lost track of it all. Where he’s come from is far less important than where he’s going.

He’ll put both items to better use than the dead man could, is the point. He’d far rather use his wand than the gun to defend himself, but that would be impossible in front of Taylor and Bryce, and he means for them all to survive with their minds still reasonably intact. Taking the gun was an obvious thing to do and it would have seemed odd not to, besides.

Unlike him, both the corporals were already carrying rifles.

“Which way, Guv?” asks Bryce, the younger and slighter of the two. Taylor is built like a tank, taller than Graves with broad shoulders and hands like shovels. Bryce is closer to Graves in height, but more wiry, and—underneath all the dirt and grime that makes it hard to tell—he doesn’t seem old enough to be out here in France, ready to die for his country.

Graves studies the map in silence, for longer than he really needs to. It’s the only moment of solitude and privacy he can get since he picked up the corporals on his travels. They’ve been trailing after him doggedly for three days now and they’ve taken to calling him ‘Guv’ to avoid the thorny issue of rank. He doesn’t mind it, but their dependence upon him often feels like yet another weight around his neck.

The lines on the map and the needle on his compass are both hazy and out of focus, but Graves thinks he knows how to get them to their destination without too much meandering, having sussed out the safest, most direct route that hopefully won’t get them blown up or add too much time to their journey. They’re having to travel cross-country to get to Dunkirk in order to avoid the air-raids along the main roads.

It would be a lovely ramble through the French countryside, if it weren’t for the way said countryside is littered with blackened (sometimes purposefully _displayed_ ) body parts and the jagged, crumbling remains of bombed homes and schools. Let alone the ever-present threat of ending up part of that same bleak scenery.

Graves raises an arm to point to the narrow, winding path off to their left that leads into a copse of dense trees to the west. He doesn’t bother to speak.

Bryce and Taylor follow him, bickering back and forth about whether English or French girls are easier on the eyes, while Graves focuses on where the map and his feet are leading him. He’s become accustomed to tuning out their chatter. More concerned with listening out for the sounds of bombers above.

Their path takes them down the side of a house that’s been turned into rubble, probably a railwayman’s cottage judging by its proximity to the level crossing that helped Graves orient himself on the map. The charred edges of a few strips of fabric fluttering around his ankles lead him to wonder if they’re the remnants of clothes or curtains before he shakes his head and puts them out of his mind.

“Here, Graves,” says Taylor, huffing and out of breath like always. He’s big and he smokes too much. “Settle it for us: English or French girls? Who’s the better crumpet?”

They keep trying to provoke him into joining their conversations about women, but he never does. It doesn’t help that he’s half unsure whether ‘crumpet’ refers to something crude or if it just means _women_ in general. The way Taylor uses it, it could be either.

“I know you have your perfect bit of totty waiting for you back home,” Taylor goes on, “but don’t just say ‘American’, all right? Has to be English or French.”

Taylor decided that he had a secret lover—possibly his wife—when he first refused to be drawn into their discussions about sex. He declared Graves a ‘man of honour’ and then proceeded to say that ‘whatever crumpet made him unable to appreciate any other must be the best the world has to offer’.

If only he knew.

Suddenly anxious, Graves touches a hand to his breast pocket. He closes his eyes and exhales a long breath on feeling the thickness of the papers under his uniform, the small bulge of the knot of string that holds them together. Still there.

“Come on,” Taylor prompts. “Once and for all. English or French?”

“American,” Graves replies shortly.

Bryce howls like it’s the funniest joke he’s ever heard.

The fading evening sunlight filters down through the foliage when they tramp through the copse, giving their surroundings a golden, protective hue. Graves relaxes his shoulders a little as they go, enjoying the cover the trees provide. He can barely see the sky and there are bluebells carpeting the ground he walks over, which delights him. He watches his step while the corporals blunder on behind him.

As soon as they step out into the open again, the unmistakeable sound of bombers can be heard and the three of them duck back into the copse hurriedly. Bryce and Taylor smoke and complain about the RAF while Graves looks at the map again with his back to them, trying to quell the panic in his chest and the shaking of his hands. The planes that can drop death frighten him more than he’d care to admit or have the corporals notice. So does all the No-Maj weaponry being used in this war, if he’s honest. He’s still suffering the effects of one encounter with it and he doesn’t wish for any more.

While the droning seems to go on forever overhead, Graves stubbornly transfers his focus to the bluebells. They really are lovely and he knows someone who would appreciate them. Perhaps he’ll write about the flowers in his next letter, he muses, already thinking how he might word it. The mere thought brings him a peace he should no longer be able to feel, by all rights, and the awful noise above them is drowned out in the adoration that makes the slowing beat of his heart the only sound in his ears.

When it’s safe to continue, Graves is careful not to look back at the woods. They travel along a dirt track towards a valley and cross the muddy, plant-encrusted stream there. For once, the sight of water doesn’t make Graves want to drink. Bryce hops along the stepping stones that are set into the stream while Graves and Taylor walk more sensibly across them, although Taylor allows himself a jump off of the last stone with a flourish and a bow at the end.

The sun has set by the time they reach the next valley and the next stream that Graves and his map lead them towards. This stream is larger than the previous one and the water looks somewhat clearer. As Graves walks across the bridge, he recognises that the relative lack of chatter from the corporals behind him suggests they’re getting too tired to keep up their inane conversations. They’ll want to rest soon. Were it up to him, they’d keep walking throughout the night. Keeping moving seems the paramount thing to do and stopping in one place always seems the most likely way to get them all blown to smithereens.

Not for the first time, Graves thinks about leaving Bryce and Taylor behind and just slipping off into the night while they sleep with his wand lit to guide him. He could do it if he were alone...

“Oi, Guv. Does that look like a barn to you?”

Graves looks into the distance, squinting. It does indeed look like a barn. Without saying anything to his companions, Graves rushes on towards it through the long grass, feet suddenly made swift with the promise of shelter, water, and maybe even food.

When they draw nearer, the farmyard behind the barn becomes visible and Graves hears dogs barking. The racket makes him pause momentarily and that’s when he sees an elderly woman running towards them making shooing motions with her hands to get them to leave.

Her face is gaunt and she looks to be in her eighties, although that could just be the war adding years to her like it has to everyone it’s touched. There’s a harshness to her worn features and her gnarled hands point away from the property.

In rapid-fire French, she tells them they can’t stay there. The corporals both look to Graves, relying on him to translate.

“S'il vous plaît,” Graves says. “Just for tonight. Une nuit. Please, we’re fighting for France.”

The old woman shakes her head, strands of silver hair flicking out of her loose ponytail as she does. “Je suis désolé. My sons, they will not want this. They will kill me if I let you stay.”

Graves sighs. Yet more cruelty to worry about. It’s the last thing he needs, but the first things he _does_ need are all here. They can’t leave. “I’ll speak with them,” he says. “You won’t be harmed, I give you my word. Je te protégerai.”

The woman looks uncertain, but she doesn’t say ‘no’, so Graves says nothing further and walks past her to get to the water pump he’s spotted in the corner of the yard. He’s had to use _Aguamenti_ a few times in the night to refill their canteens while Bryce and Taylor slept on unaware, telling them the next morning that he couldn’t sleep and went out for water. It’s nice to get water the legitimate way for once. He even smiles at seeing the two corporals side by side under the spout in their eagerness after he finishes, heads knocking together, swearing and shoving at one another.

A hand tugs on his sleeve and Graves looks down to see a little dark-haired girl trying to get his attention. Her face is as thin as the old woman’s. Her fingers look like twigs.

“I will bring you food, monsieur.”

Guilt gnaws at his empty stomach for taking anything from these people, but they won’t reach Dunkirk if they die of starvation first.

“Merci beaucoup.”

Uneducated though they may be, Bryce and Taylor’s practicality could give a good number of the moronic diplomats Graves used to be obligated to listen to a run for their money, he thinks, watching as Taylor makes mattresses out of sacks in the barn they’ve commandeered and Bryce constructs a table out of a door and a few piles of bricks. By the time the two men are done—Bryce adding the finishing touch of a misshapen stump of a candle as the centerpiece on the table—Graves has to hand it to them.

“Like a goddamn hotel,” he says with a grin.

The corporals almost _preen_ under his hard-won praise and it makes his heart pang with missing the Aurors who used to do the same. He should be kinder to his men, as their pseudo-commanding officer.

They all lie on their makeshift beds to wait for the little girl and Graves listens to Bryce and Taylor’s easy banter with his eyes shut, on the cusp of falling asleep but unable to fully succumb with his stomach still cramping and rumbling. He’s never been so hungry. If he knew emptiness like it in prison, then he has forgotten it along with everything else they took on his release.

“What do you think about these sons of hers then?” asks Bryce abruptly. “Nazi sympathisers? Or just selfish cowards?”

“Who knows,” Graves says, without opening his eyes. “Just be ready for a fight.”

He finds himself gripping the handle of the revolver he liberated from the dead captain. It feels all wrong under his fingers, compared to the familiarity of his wand.

The girl comes into the barn shortly after, the noise of her entrance making Graves sit up at once. He softens his stance on seeing her, smiling as she deposits a wicker basket on their table and then darts away again, twin plaits flying out behind her.

“Merci!” Graves calls after her.

“Yeah, cheers!” yells Taylor, already on his knees in front of the basket, large hands delving into its contents without ceremony.

The girl has brought them a small loaf of brown bread, a lump of soft cheese that has been amateurishly cut away from a larger block, an onion, and a bottle of wine.

Graves eats his share without complaint while Bryce and Taylor whinge about the mould on the bread and pass the wine back and forth. The cheese is good, at least.

They lay in silence after eating every last scrap—mould and all—with their bellies still grumbling, although Graves finds the ache in his has diminished with what little filling it’s received.

Then, just when Graves feels his eyes beginning to drift shut, the sound of approaching footsteps has him and the corporals scrambling to sit upright. On looking to the door, Graves can make out the shapes of two men each holding something in their hands. The falling dark obscures just _what_ they carry.

“Bonsoir,” comes a deep voice from one of the men. They can only be the sons the old woman was so afraid of.

“Bonsoir,” Graves replies warily, taking up the revolver, thumb finding the safety. He sees both Bryce and Taylor reaching for their rifles where they left them at the side of their mattresses.

“Hold your fire,” Graves whispers to them. “Wait for my signal.”

He doesn’t want anyone to get jumpy.

“Anglais?” asks the same man who first spoke.

“Anglais,” Graves replies, half because he means that’s the language they all speak, half because proclaiming that he’s an American doesn’t often do him any favours and it hardly matters out here anyway. He chose to throw his lot in with the Brits.

“We have something for you,” says the other man in French. His voice is higher than his brother’s, more nasal.

“Qu’est-ce que c’est?” Graves asks. The man could mean a bullet, he thinks grimly.

“What’s he saying?” Bryce asks in a panicked stage-whisper.

Graves tries to project calm. “He says they have something for us.”

“Oh shit. _Fuck_. What do we do?”

“Put down your guns, Messieurs. We have brought more food for you.”

One of the men steps forward and Graves quickly translates what he’d just said for the corporals’ benefit before one of them takes the movement as a sign of aggression and shoots.

“Voila.” The man who spoke brings not a weapon but a _torch_ out of his pocket and shines it onto the items in his brother’s hands: two baguettes. He then shines the light on the bag he carries in his own arms. “I hope you like olives,” he says with a chuckle. “Vive l’Angleterre.”

Graves sighs out all the air in his body, infinitely glad to be able to tuck the gun away again. He runs a shaking hand through his hair and suppresses a grimace at the oily, dirt-caked feel of it.

“Vive la France,” he says, infusing it with as much warmth and gratitude as he can.

Breaking bread with the two Frenchmen is surprisingly pleasant. They’re both middle-aged, from the looks of it. Gustave is short and stocky while Marcel is tall and slender. They may be physical opposites, but they possess matching good natures.

“Ah, her mind is not what it was,” Gustave says when Graves asks about the old woman’s warning about her sons. “ She no longer knows who we are.”

“But she is as fearsome as ever,” says Marcel, laughing and making claw motions at them, “and she would probably attack a German soldier with her bare hands if she had to.”

Graves dutifully translates all of this for Bryce and Taylor who stuff their faces with the olives, along with the bread, ham, cheese, and tomatoes that the brothers brought with them as well.

Gustave and Marcel seem unwilling to share their experiences of the war when Graves asks them, happier to provide anecdotes from their mother’s past, like the time she chased after another of their brothers with a pitchfork in their youth. Graves suspects that missing brother (who they refer to strictly in the past tense) is the cause of their reticence, but he has more tact than to push the issue and just laughs in the right places as is expected of him. He knows his relaying of the stories to the corporals is less comical in his colourless monotone, but Bryce and Tayor still seem to enjoy them.

“What about you?” Marcel eventually asks. “What is your story?”

And Graves—hunger finally sated, full of good wine and good company—tells them what he cares to and doesn’t bother to translate for the corporals, who he doesn’t want to view him differently. It’s a watered down account for No-Maj ears: he explains that he was wrongly imprisoned for two years for a murder he didn’t commit and then released when the real perpetrator admitted to his crime shortly before war broke out, gloating about it and a number of other atrocities from across the world where he couldn’t easily be captured and held to account.

“Coward,” Gustave had said at this point, spitting on the ground to his left.

Graves had only nodded.

He tells them that on his release an old friend of his asked for him personally to join a special task-force that was intended to help bring victory to the Allies.

“I wanted to restore some honour to my name,” Graves tells them, “and I wanted to fight for England, where my mother was born and where several friends, including the one who asked for my help, stayed loyal to me during my incarceration. I know America will be involved soon enough, the way this war is going. And I knew that _he_ would be fighting out here somewhere—the man who framed me. I didn’t imagine I might meet him on the battlefield, but I just knew I had to be on the side that was opposing him.”

Gustave and Marcel both raise their glasses in a toast to that.

In the background, Bryce and Taylor are carrying on their own mumbled conversation about how good they found the pâté that the brothers gave them. Interspersed with that rhapsodising, they also argue about the optimal breast size, complete with conspicuous hand gestures.

The Frenchmen glance over to them and chuckle, clearly understanding the topic of conversation despite the language barrier.

Graves drops his head with their attention turned elsewhere for a moment. He feels almost faint from talking for so long. He’s broken his own rule this evening, but he’s eaten and he has a place to rest for the night. He could afford it.

“All that fighting we did the last time,” Marcel says with a sigh, making Graves lift his head again to look at him. “And now the Germans are back in France.”

Guilt hits Graves then like a stunning spell and the shame of the retreat sluices through his body. “We will return,” he promises. “We will come back, others will come too, and we will throw them out.”

Neither Gustave nor Marcel seem convinced by that, but they smile as if they believe it and each of them clasps his hand briefly.

“We’ll be gone with the sunrise,” Graves says. “We won’t take up any more of your generous hospitality. You’ve given us more than we could ever repay and I won’t soon forget it.”

Later that night, when the brothers are gone and both Bryce and Taylor are snoring, Graves stands outside the farmhouse and casts a shield charm on it and the barn. He learned the hard way that a shield charm is no match for the Luftwaffe, but it makes him feel better to have done _something_.

He returns to his mattress as quietly as he can, not wanting to disturb the corporals as they rest. For a long time he just lays there, overwhelmed by how exhausted he is, but somehow not ready for sleep just yet himself. With Bryce and Taylor sleeping as deeply as they are, he feels safe to mutter a soft _“Lumos”_ to light his wand to read by. He takes the sheaf of envelopes from inside his shirt and selects one at random.

The letter he unfolds with trembling fingers is one of the earliest ones from when Percival had just arrived in France.

> _Dearest Percival,_
> 
> _I hope this owl finds you well. He has a remarkably gentle nature, so please give his feathers a stroke before you send him back. He seems to enjoy that._
> 
> _Your description of Captain Scamander in your last letter was very illuminating. You’re right—he really is nothing like his younger brother, who has left for France now himself for his confidential Ministry-endorsed business. I’m left in no doubt by his excited hints that it really must concern dragons. Dragons! It still seems unbelievable that they should exist, let alone be used in warfare._
> 
> _Hopefully, Newt will be safe wherever he ends up and I hope the same is true of yourself and Tina. I hate being stuck here while the three of you are in France, but I’ll be shipping out soon when my training is complete. At least then people might stop spitting at me in the streets._
> 
> _(Please, don’t try to dissuade me from coming over again or I’ll be very angry with you, and you know how I hate being angry with you.)_
> 
> _I hope Theseus Scamander is a good commanding officer. I still think it’s beyond unfair that you can’t be in command of your own unit, considering your background, but I do realise why that’s impossible if you weren’t even eligible for officer training. Is that just because of your past? Even now you’ve been acquitted and apologised to?_
> 
> _Myself and St Mungo’s both remain extremely busy, with witches and wizards being brought in every day now. We see magical maladies still, but more and more I find myself dealing with the sorts of injuries that Chastity must be tending in her own work at St Thomas’s. I’ve become adept at treating both during my time here though and my mentor thinks I’ll be able to join the Healers coming across to France any day now. My education in other magical areas is still lacking, but the intention was only ever to learn this discipline in particular when I came to England after you refused my visits whilst you were away._
> 
> _I’m sorry. I don’t mean to refer to that hurt so often when I write, especially when you can’t even remember committing it. I’m glad they took your memories of your time in prison, you know. I’m glad it made you forget your stupid decision to not write to me or see me in the hope that I would somehow forget all about you. You were an absolute idiot to think that could ever happen and I hate you for it. But there was a time when I was an idiot and stopped writing to you myself, so I guess we’re even now. Your reasons were, admittedly, nobler than mine. But stupid all the same. Nothing and no one could ever make me forget about you. Not even an endless amount of whatever potion they forced on you on your release._
> 
> _Speaking of: I hope the nightmares have eased. I won’t say anything further because the idea of you being in that sort of pain while I can offer you no comfort tears at my soul and I don’t want to linger on suffering in this letter._
> 
> _And so I’ll write about the last time we were together. I think of it all the time, my love. The other people I’m training with keep asking me why I’m so prone to blushing in the evenings when we take meals together because my thoughts, no longer occupied by work, always turn to you. They keep asking about my "sweetheart", but I can never give them any details. I can’t tell them any of it. I wouldn’t though, even if I could. I like that it’s just for us._
> 
> _I’m blushing even as I write this, just thinking about how it felt when we made love in my tiny flat in Balham. I can hardly put into words how incredible it was, how close I felt to you after so long apart. I thought our time in the library together two years before was completion, and it was, those memories visit me just as often, believe me... but seeing you undressed, being naked with you and having our bodies join like that was the closest thing to heaven I think I’m likely to experience._
> 
> _I’m terribly distracted now, I’ll have to return to this letter later on. This is all your fault, Percival, I hope you realise._

Percival—for he can be _Percival_ again when he reads these letters—smiles at that. He shuts his eyes and pictures Credence, his own sweet, beloved Credence, getting himself all hot and bothered while writing about the last time they were together. The idea that he needed to take a break from writing is a stirring one, but Percival is far too tired now to do anything about it. Instead, he just sets the letter down on his chest and watches it rise and fall with his breaths. The shrapnel in his side grates still, but it’s far less noticeable when he has a distraction as good as this one.

He can recreate the remainder of the letter from memory:

> _I trust you’ll forgive the lustful direction my correspondence just took. Perhaps there’s nothing to forgive and you needed to return to reading after a time for a similar reason. I hope you did. The idea of bringing you pleasure from a distance with only my words and your memories is an immensely satisfying one. Pun very much intended._
> 
> _I should address the unanswered questions from your last letter before I sign off: Firstly, my new wand that I got from Mr. Ollivander’s shop is wonderful and we’re getting along famously, as Newt would say. Thank you for asking. The wand that suited me best is made of rosewood and has a unicorn tail hair core. I hope you’ve re-established your rapport with your old wand and it’s serving you well._
> 
> _Secondly, there have been no developments in my attempts to track down Modesty in America. It’s harder to keep it up from where I am and with everyone’s attention stolen by the war now, I doubt there’s much hope. This is probably for the best. After her adoption, I knew there wouldn’t be a good chance of finding her again. As much as I hate the idea that she still thinks you killed Mary Lou, I do agree with you. If I can’t find her to explain, then at least she doesn’t know you were innocent all along and she won’t be out there blaming herself for something she couldn’t have helped. Your capacity for understanding and compassion on the matter still astounds me and only makes me love you more than I already thought I could._
> 
> _Until we meet again, I’ll be thinking of you always. I love you, stay safe, and always remember that I am_
> 
> _Yours,_
> 
> _Credence_

Percival takes out his compass and charms it not to point north, but to point towards his heart’s desire. The needle spins a few times and Percival follows it, hypnotised, eyes heavy-lidded. Eventually the needle settles and points north-west, towards the coast. Towards England.

 _I love you_ , he thinks, sending the thought across the remainder of the French countryside he has left to cover until he reaches Dunkirk, sending it on a journey across the channel, all the way to London where he hopes Credence remains. Let him never come to this desolate land, he prays. Let him not be here already.

He fixes his compass again ready for tomorrow morning and stows it away in his pocket with the map.

He doesn’t put the letter away.

He gradually becomes drowsy like that: one hand pressing Credence’s letter to his heart, the other touching the compass in his pocket. The words of all of Credence’s letters float dreamily through his head, the sentences and sentiments perfect, incorruptible.

 _I love you._ _I live for you._

He repeats the two thoughts like a mantra until he finally lets himself be dragged down into slumber.

When he slips into a dream, Credence is there waiting in the library for him.


	8. October, 1939

**_Seven months earlier_ **

_October, 1939 - London_

Percival arrives early for his meeting with Credence, ten minutes before midday, to find the Joe Lyons teahouse is already crowded. He looks through the windows in the doors that lead into the room where the patrons—silver-haired men in smart suits, middle-aged women in hats with curls sticking out underneath—all sit and chat amiably over tea as though the war that’s just broken out were nothing more than a distant concern. _That’s the Brits for you,_ Percival thinks wryly.

For a moment, he’s gripped by the urge to just turn around and leave again. After the monotony of his half-remembered prison experience, this busy, civilised world before him seems to be one he no longer knows how to exist in. Such an ordinary scene is still something of a novelty. There are just so many people, so many colours, so much _noise_. Even through the door, the buzzing of various conversations can be heard, along with the clinking of spoons against china, the rattling of cups in saucers.

He curls his fingers around the door handle. It’s ridiculous, he knows, to feel any trepidation about going through and being among people, among _No-Majes_ like this when he’s more powerful than any of them. And yet his stomach is still churning with apprehension.

Shaking his head at himself, Percival pushes open the door. He takes a seat at a corner table facing that same door and watches it, barely blinking, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. Until Credence joins him, he has only his anxiety and impatience for company.

His focus on the entrance is broken for a short time by the appearance of a waitress in a maid-like ensemble of a black dress, white apron, and a matching hat. She asks if he’d care for some tea and Percival startles on hearing her voice, despite how unobtrusive it is.

“I’m waiting for someone,” he says, and it comes out sounding frustratingly like a question.

He’ll be here. It’s just early yet, that’s all.

The waitress nods, eyes bright and mouth curved in a wide smile. “I can bring you a pot anyway while you wait,” she says. “Will she be long, do you think?”

Percival swallows hard at her presumption. On his left, at the table next to him, a brunette in a nurse’s cape grips the hand of a worried-looking man wearing a Private’s uniform like the one Percival will be donning tomorrow. The couple speak in hushed tones and the man lifts the woman’s hand to his mouth intermittently.

“I’m sure my friend will be on time,” Percival says, turning his attention back to the waitress. “We’re meant to meet at twelve.”

“Perfect. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

The server beams at him and bustles off, skirt swishing. Percival sighs with relief when she’s gone and his tense shoulders drop along with his pitiful attempt at a smile. He’s become unused to friendliness, unsure how to respond appropriately to people after so long out of the real world.

He only hopes he knows how to respond to Credence.

The clock on the wall above the doorway strikes twelve. The waitress returns and kindly pours his tea after he embarrasses himself by lifting his own treacherous, trembling hand to do it. He recovers enough composure in time to murmur his thanks to her retreating back.

Then, when he looks to the entrance again, he sees Credence is there on the other side of the door, looking into the tearoom. Looking for _him_.

Percival stands up with such haste that he knocks his hip against the table. His full cup of tea rocks precariously and some of the liquid sloshes over the side to pool in the saucer below. A few drops land further out, staining the pristine white tablecloth with brown dots.

His appalling clumsiness draws Credence’s attention through the window and their gazes meet and hold. Through the glass that separates them, Credence looks as stunned as Percival feels.

It’s the first time they’ve seen each other in two years.

He’s still beautiful. Of course, Percival wasn’t expecting anything different, but the sight of Credence, the very _fact_ of him still takes all the breath from his lungs. His eyes absorb every detail, every change and every nuance, hoarding them for a time when he no longer has ready access to them like this.

He traces the swoop of wavy hair above Credence’s forehead, neatly parted to one side in the current typical fashion. It suits him like that, Percival thinks, but so did his longer hair and even the blunt bowl cut his mother used to keep it in managed to look good on him. Hair makes no difference when you have a face like the one Credence was blessed with.

Clothes make no difference to his unquestionable appeal either, but Credence is handsomely dressed for the occasion in a black suit. It looks tailored, but it also looks a bit too big on his slender frame.

As he looks at Credence, Credence stares back at him, unwavering as he carries out his own appraisal. Percival hopes he likes what he sees. Or at least doesn’t find him too changed. He’s thinner himself than he used to be and his own suit jacket feels loose around the shoulders and waist. Meanwhile, his tie and the collar of his shirt feel far too tight all of a sudden.

Someone pushes past Credence in the doorway and their eye contact breaks when Credence glances in the direction of the man who jostled him. The spell breaks with it. After a few blinks and a shake of his head, Credence seems to rally and he walks through the doors into the tearoom, towards Percival.

For all that he still slouches a little, Percival has never seen such purpose to his stride.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he says on reaching his table.

“You aren’t,” Percival assures, even before he’s finished apologising.

It would be the moment for a handshake, if they were the friends they must pretend to be while they’re here. But they aren’t and it isn’t. Awkwardly, they both sit down, smile at one another, and then look off to the side.

Percival feels sick with nerves. Buoyant with excitement. Crushed by dread.

At the table beside them, the brown-haired nurse now strokes her lover’s cheek with a thumb while he presses his pale face into her hand, eyes closed as if in rapture. The shining trail of a tear is visible on his other cheek.

Percival has to look away from their intimacy, which means looking back at Credence again. To give himself something useful to do _,_ he stretches his hands out for the teapot. He’s relieved when he sees no tremor in them. “Do you want…?”

“No, thank you.”

Percival withdraws his hands quickly, before they can do anything inadvisable in such a public setting. Credence’s hands present too much of a temptation where they’re folded demurely on the table in front of him and Percival entertains a brief, hopeless fantasy of being able to take them in his own. Even if he _could_ do it, his touch might not be welcome, he reminds himself.

Silence falls; Percival grimaces. Every statement or question in his head seems inadequate to give voice to. They’ve sent owls to each other a few times since his release last month and they discussed a great deal in those letters, but actually carrying on a conversation aloud is a skill Percival has lost, somewhat.

Credence looks like he’s struggling to find words too, chin tilted down into his neck, dark eyes just watching Percival in what appears to be a mixture of amazement and caution.

“You’re qualified now?” Percival asks eventually, pointing at the familiar emblem pinned to Credence’s lapel. It’s the sign of a Healer: a wand and a bone, crossed. “You said you were training.”

Credence’s head dips further to look down at his chest and an expression of dismay forms on his face. “Oh, I forgot to take it off…”

His cheeks flush as he fiddles with the pin to remove it. As far as hints at belonging to the magical world go, the badge is a subtle one. Most No-Majes wouldn’t recognise the wand for what it is and Percival didn’t mean to chastise him when he drew Credence’s attention to it. He regrets saying anything now, seeing Credence so abashed.

“I’m still technically a trainee,” Credence says, once he’s dropped the badge into a pocket out of sight. “But not for much longer and then I’ll be heading to France to help the medics out there. The Healer-in-charge just gave us the pins this morning to show that we can work without much supervision at this point. Instils confidence in the patients, that’s how my mentor put it.”

Percival nods, taking in all of Credence’s words and basking in the soothing cadence of his voice at the same time. He’s missed the sound desperately. He ignores the mention of France and puts it to one side as a topic to come back to later—if he can, before he leaves for France himself, he’s going to try to convince Credence to stay where he is. Or, better still, convince him to go home to America.

“I’m sure your patients have every confidence in you,” Percival says. “Congratulations, it’s a big achievement.”

“Thank you,” Credence replies softly, eyes lowering to the table. Percival’s heart clenches to see that, even after everything, Credence retains the same shy sweetness that he fell in love with all those years ago.

The ‘I’m proud of you’ that he longs to say next sits heavy on his tongue. He could have spoken it freely once and Credence would have smiled and blushed in return, but it doesn’t seem appropriate for the time they currently occupy. He’s not sure if he still has the right to feel pride when it comes to Credence. In fact, he’s not sure if he still has the right to feel _anything_ when it comes to Credence, after he (apparently) took the unilateral decision to end their relationship.

He may not remember doing it, but he knows he should apologise in person while he has the chance.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I know I said it already when I first wrote to you after I got out, but I’m sorry for not writing back to your letters while I was... while I was away. I’m sorry for not letting you visit.”

Credence’s shoulders lift and then slump. The dejection in his posture is painful to see. “I know why you did it,” he says, mouth twitching into a small, short-lived smile. “You did send me one letter to explain at the start, you know, you didn’t just cut me off without saying anything. You said you didn’t want me to put my life on hold for you, that I should find someone else and not feel guilty about it. But I could never—” Credence looks down at the table again, blinking rapidly. The white points of his teeth dig into his lower lip. “I know why you did it,” he repeats, without making eye contact.

Knowing and forgiving are two very different things, Percival thinks. Something he does remember, with undiminished clarity, is just how betrayed he felt in 1934 when their roles were reversed and Credence stopped writing to _him_ in New York. He remembers the frustration, the self-doubt, the unbearable loneliness that used to keep him awake at night. Those were hard things to put aside when he saw Credence again in 1937, but the joy of realising that Credence did it because he was in love with him eclipsed any misery.

Percival’s reason was the same. It probably won’t ease the pain he caused, but Credence deserves to know.

“All I’ve ever wanted is for you to be happy, Credence. I don’t expect you to forgive me, but the way I felt, what I said to you in the library… That didn’t change. It still hasn’t.”

He loves Credence as much now as he ever did. When it hurts like this, it can’t really be anything else _but_ love. That’s how he recognised what it was in the first place, on one of those sleepless, heartsick nights in the city. At some point, the boy he once treated like a younger brother had become a grown man with the power to hurt him like nothing and no one else. From the moment Percival admitted that to himself, it was unalterable.

Two years apart this time, three in the past… but it could be five years, _ten_ years, more—it still wouldn’t make any difference. Credence will be in his heart until it gives its last feeble beat.

That’s why refusing to see or speak to Credence would have been his best and only option when he was sentenced to decades in prison rather than being given the death penalty for killing a No-Maj. He’s sure he must have broken his own heart along with Credence’s when he stopped all contact, but unfortunately Credence is the only one who remembers all of that time now. He carries the majority of that burden alone.

Seraphina Picquery is to blame for a lot of it. Percival can recall her fighting tooth and nail for him to be incarcerated and not executed due to a lack of conclusive evidence, even with all of his many vocal opponents at MACUSA baying for his blood and vowing they’d see her removed from office for defending a murderer.

Percival has thought in his low points that a quick death would have been preferable and less painful for all involved. If he’d just been executed, Credence would have had closure and he would have got on with his life like Percival wanted him to. Percival wouldn’t have suffered through whatever it was that meant he had to take a memory-altering potion on his release from prison after Grindelwald boasted about framing him.

A grim-looking wizard wearing grey robes had explained it to him: “We offered you a choice,” he said when Percival came around after a day of sleeping off the lingering fear and confusion while under observation in the infirmary. “Take away the bad memories or keep them. You chose the potion.”

Percival isn’t sure he believes that. It wouldn’t be beyond MACUSA to have forced that potion on him and the idea that he wanted to forget what happened to him so badly that he allowed his own _memories_ to be modified is unthinkable.

All he has now are his fragmented recollections of a dull two years spent in a prison cell and his nightmares, the content of which always seems to slip from his grasp in the transition between sleep and when he wakes up screaming, sweating, and shaking.

His heart hammers. Just thinking about the gaps in his memory never fails to make him jittery, for some reason, as if his mind doesn’t even want to _contemplate_ what horrors might fill those yawning spaces. Maybe he really did choose to forget.

“Percival?” Credence’s voice sounds muffled and distant. His face is creased with concern.

Percival shuts his eyes tightly. He knew this would happen. How idiotic it is though, to be panicking over things he can’t even _remember._ And in front of Credence too.

“It’s okay,” Credence says. “You’re okay. Percival, look at me. _Look_ at me.”

His voice seems nearer now and it acts like a beacon to guide Percival out of the abyss of self-loathing, bringing him back to the present, back to himself. Percival opens his eyes and does what he was told to. He looks at Credence—the delicate curve of his ear, the harsh planes of his angular jaw, the perfect bow of his mouth. Within seconds, he finds he can breathe again.

“I’m here.” Credence stretches his hand out on the table as he says it, palm up in invitation. “I’m with you.”

Percival’s fingers _ache_ with the need to grip that hand and hold onto Credence like a lifeline, but he can’t. Not now, not here.

He glances to his left and right to encompass the room around them. All the couples that can hold hands while he and Credence are trapped in shameful secrecy, unable to touch or speak plainly.

Credence looks too and frowns before leaning back in his chair, hand sliding back over the table with him. “I should have chosen a more private meeting place,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Percival says. “We could always—” He stops when he notices the clock above the doorway opposite for the first time since Credence came in and a terrible thought occurs to him. “How long do you have left of your lunch break?”

Credence follows his line of sight again, turning his head to look at the clock. The time is almost twenty-five minutes past twelve. “About... fifteen minutes.”

“Is that all?” Percival hears his voice break on the last word, as if the echo of what’s going on in his chest had travelled up his throat and out of his mouth.

“I’m not going back,” Credence says firmly. “They’ll cope without me this afternoon. I can’t leave now, not when I’ve just got you back. When do you report to Theseus Scamander?”

Percival’s stomach seems to twist itself into a knot at the mention of Theseus. “Tomorrow, first thing,” he says, and promptly forgets all about the prospect again so that he can enjoy every last second with Credence, especially if they’re about to run short. “But you should go if you have to. I don’t want you to get into trouble because of me.”

It’s only a token resistance and the disbelieving look on Credence’s face tells Percival that he knows it was.

“Did you not hear me? I meant it when I said I’m not leaving you. What I said to you in the library hasn’t changed for me either, you know. I want to make the most of the time we have together.”

Percival’s stomach twists again at that, but it’s a wholly pleasant feeling this time and hope starts to swell in his chest. If Credence still loves him then anything is possible.

Abruptly, decisively, Credence stands up. “I have a flat in Balham,” he says and then shakes his head a little. “An apartment, I mean, you can blame how long I’ve been here for that. It’s only small, but at least we can talk properly there.”

Percival gets to his feet too, easily lured by the thought of being alone with Credence where they don’t have to hide who and what they are.

“Lead the way,” he says.

Credence does and, after absently dropping far too much No-Maj money on the table for his tea, Percival follows him out of the teahouse like a sailor follows the stars. He’s caught off guard when Credence grabs his wrist and pulls him into a nearby alleyway, but he understands why when he feels the unmistakeable tug of being sidelong-Apparated.

Credence barely gives him a second to get acquainted with his new surroundings after Apparating them both into what must be his apartment. Percival has time to catch a glimpse of an unmade double bed with rumpled cream sheets and that’s all before Credence takes his face in his hands, crowds him against the nearest wall, and kisses him.

 _So much for talking_ , Percival thinks dazedly as he kisses back, wrapping his arms around Credence to hold onto him. He pulls Credence as close as he can and leans into the wall at his back, glad to have the support when he opens his mouth and Credence’s tongue finds his.

It’s utterly unlike the first tentative kisses they shared in his library two years ago. Credence’s lips are demanding, his tongue insistent, and the sheer forcefulness of the kiss has Percival’s knees threatening to give out.

“I’ve missed you,” Credence pants into his mouth after he pulls back a fraction for air. “God, I’ve missed you so much. Please, I want you to— I want—”

Percival shivers, already aroused to the point of dizziness. He can feel Credence is hard against him too and presses forward with his hips. The movement makes Credence _whine_.

“Tell me,” Percival says, just as breathless as Credence. “Anything you want, just tell me and I’ll do it for you.”

Credence’s only response is to squeeze his eyes shut for a few seconds.

Waiting for him to get there on his own, Percival reaches up with one hand to sweep a few strands of Credence’s hair off his forehead before skating his fingertips tenderly down the side of his face from temple to jaw.

“I want what I said in my note from before,” Credence says, the words pouring out of him in a rush. “The one you weren’t meant to read. Tell me you remember it, I can’t— I can’t _say_ it.”

Percival strokes his face again, smiling at him in reassurance. He doesn’t have to say it. Of course Percival remembers. The idea has consumed him ever since he first read the words.

 _I long to feel you inside of me,_ Credence once wrote. _I dream about you making love to me—_

“‘All through the night’,” he says, to show he has it memorised, to show he understands what Credence is struggling to ask for.

Credence nods, flushed and wide-eyed. With most of his irises swallowed up by his pupils, his eyes look black. Fathomless. “Do you… do you want to?” he asks in a small voice.

The unspoken ‘do you want _me?’_ is all Percival can hear and it makes him feel like his ribs are collapsing inwards. Credence should never doubt how much Percival wants him, how much he _has_ wanted him, will _always_ want him.

“I do, Credence. I can’t even begin to tell you how much.”

He really can’t. There just aren’t words and so he kisses Credence, pushing all of his love and longing into it as he insinuates his thigh between Credence’s to press up against his erection. The vibration of Credence’s answering moan travels all through him.

He reluctantly breaks the kiss after that, before he can get carried away. “Have you done it before?” he asks. “Has there been anyone while I’ve been away?”

That was what he wanted—or what he would have _told_ himself he wanted—when he wrote to Credence telling him to move on, even though the very idea of Credence being with anyone else makes him feel sick to his stomach. Some of that is down to the guilt he feels for being possessive of Credence when he has no right to be, but mostly he just hates the thought of anyone pawing at him inelegantly without realising what a privilege they were being given. It’s all too easy to imagine some young, faceless man taking his own pleasure without ensuring Credence’s and it infuriates him. Credence deserves to be worshipped like the marvel he is.

What really makes Percival’s skin crawl though is the thought of anyone hurting him. His own first time in his final year at Ilvermorny wasn’t terrible, but it _was_ unnecessarily painful because neither of them knew what they were doing.

If it couldn’t be him, then he just hopes the first person to take Credence to bed was experienced and caring. He hopes they loved him. He hopes they made him _feel_ loved.

Credence touches his face then, effortlessly drawing him out of his worries. His cool fingers trace the line of Percival’s jaw and then splay over his cheek like a blessing.

“There’s been no one,” he says, voice as gentle as his hand. “I’ve never wanted anyone but you. I know you told me not to wait for you, but I couldn’t… Percival, I can’t _be_ with anyone else.”

Percival’s throat closes up on hearing that and all the assurances that he wants to make in return seem to get trapped underneath. He swallows thickly around the obstruction, blinking to get rid of the sting in his eyes.

Before he can find his voice, Credence reaches down to take both of his hands. “I don’t want to wait any longer,” he says, pulling Percival with him as he walks backwards through the room.

Enchanted by the curve of Credence’s shy half-smile, awed by his words still, Percival lets himself be led. Credence’s hands clasp his so tightly that Percival can feel a heartbeat in his fingers. He isn’t sure if it’s his own pulse or Credence’s, but the distinction hardly matters.

Credence tugs him along until they reach the side of the bed and then stops next to it. “I want to see all of you,” he says. “Can I undress you?”

“You can have anything you want,” Percival tells him.

He tips his head back to help when Credence’s fingers instantly go to the knot of his tie, closing his eyes at the brushing of Credence’s knuckles against his throat. “Do you want me to undress you too?” he asks.

“Yes,” Credence says simply, and they don’t say anything for a long while after that.

There’s no need to speak when their quickened breaths betray their rising desire, when their clumsy fingers slip over shirt buttons and cufflinks to give away how eager they are. All of their devotion to each other is articulated in hands and mouths on newly bared skin, an _I want you_ in every heated kiss, _I love you_ in every soft caress.

After their jackets, shirts, and undershirts have all been tossed aside carelessly, Percival drops to the floor and begins to unlace Credence’s shoes for him. Credence’s hand shoots out to rest on his shoulder for balance, but he still wobbles slightly as he looks down at him in surprise.

Percival knows what it must look like—him down on his knees before Credence—and hopes Credence is enjoying the sight as much as he’s enjoying even just the _idea_ of having Credence in his mouth. It’s appealing enough that he has to bring a hand to the front of his trousers where they’ve become almost painfully tight and he grinds the heel of it against himself with a sigh.

Unable to resist now the idea is in his head, he surges up and fits his mouth against the shape of Credence’s erection through his trousers.

“ _Percival._ ”

The sound of Credence brokenly saying his name like that makes him press his hand harder against his own cock and he pants heavily into the already damp fabric tented over Credence’s groin in front of him.

At this rate, he might not last long enough to grant Credence’s original request. Regretfully, he takes his hand away from himself and stands up again.

“I think we should finish undressing ourselves,” he says with a breathy laugh.

Credence gives a nod, teeth caught in his lower lip, eyes glassy. He’s clearly just as affected.

They hurry through the removal of their shoes and then steady each other as they step out of their trousers and underwear, laughing when they both almost trip in their haste. Finally, once there are no more layers left to hide them, they just look at each other.

Credence’s eyes are covetous as they rake down the length of Percival’s torso and then linger on his waist. Percival watches his blush darken, hears his breaths coming fast and shallow. Or maybe that’s his own breathing.

“I’ve wanted to see you like this for so long,” Credence says.

It’s immensely flattering. And a relief, after Percival’s superficial concerns about the greying of his chest hair, the weight and muscle definition he lost while he was away.

“I could say the same.”

Percival runs his gaze over Credence, drinking in his sculpted collarbones, the peaks of his pink nipples beneath and the sparse hair that surrounds them. That hair tapers as it descends, leading Percival to look down at Credence’s cock where it’s curved up against his abdomen, the head flushed the same shade of red as his lips and cheeks. His eyes fall to Credence’s legs last, sweeping over the length of them, from his pale thighs to his knobbly knees to his bony feet.

He’s glorious from head to toe.

When he looks back up to Credence’s face, he finds Credence is biting his lip again. His hands are fidgeting as if fighting the urge to cover himself.

“You’re stunning,” Percival assures him. He says it as sincerely as any unquestionable truth he’s ever uttered in his lifetime.

Credence smiles, ducking his head, and his bashfulness only serves to make him even more heartbreakingly lovely.

Percival steps in close to Credence and strokes his hands down his sides. “Shall we lay down?” he asks.

In lieu of answering out loud, Credence loops his arms around his neck and pulls him down onto the bed.

Percival braces his hands on either side of Credence, careful not to let his full weight fall on him. Credence’s hands come up to his shoulder blades to pull him nearer though and he lifts his head off the pillow in a clear request for Percival to kiss him again, neck extended, chin tilted. Percival obliges gladly. At the same time, he grinds down with his hips and they both groan when their erections meet and rub together.

“Feels good?” Percival asks, smiling at the frantic jerk of Credence’s head that he gets in reply. “Do you still want me inside you?” he asks next. “Because we don’t have to do that. If you want, we can just keep on like this.”

He rocks against Credence to emphasise the point, gratified by the way Credence’s face slackens and his mouth opens to let out another strangled noise of pleasure.

“No,” Credence gasps, “I want to know what it’s like.”

Percival presses a brief, dry kiss to his cheek. “Okay.”

He rolls off Credence to lay on his left side, manoeuvering Credence onto his right with one hand on the swell of his ass so they’re facing each other. He then lifts Credence’s leg to rest over his hip. This would probably be easier to do from behind him, but Percival wants to watch every single flicker of a reaction that crosses Credence’s face. He has to know if he doesn’t like the feeling, if anything hurts him.

After conjuring oil onto his fingers, he reaches between Credence’s now spread thighs to stroke softly over his entrance.

A hand clutches at his bicep. Credence’s lips part, eyelashes dipping. “Oh,” he says, “I— I like that.”

His eyes flutter shut and his mouth opens wider when Percival rubs again and moves his free hand from Credence’s hip to grasp his erection. He finds him still perfectly hard and the head is slick with pre-come, but Percival hasn’t actually pushed inside him at all yet.

“Have you done this to yourself?” he asks.

Credence shakes his head against the pillow under it, hips shifting. “I didn’t get very far. It was uncomfortable and I just started to feel stupid or embarrassed every time I tried.”

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” Percival tells him. “Not with me.”

He kisses Credence for a distraction while he circles his hole one last time and then he presses the tip of his index finger in. Credence breaks their kiss to inhale sharply at the sensation. His lips open beneath Percival’s, enough for him to slip his tongue between them when he kisses Credence again and pushes in a little more with his finger.

Credence is as tight as he thought he would be inside and almost unbearably hot. Too tight, Percival decides, and pulls back.

“No,” Credence protests, “I can do it—”

Percival hushes him and strokes over his cock a couple of times, wanting him to relax into it. “Don’t worry,” he says. “That’s what’s making it uncomfortable. If you’re anxious, all your muscles will tense up. You need to breathe deeply and try to let everything go. I promise it’s going to feel good, Credence, I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I know,” Credence says. “I know, I trust you.”

Percival smiles at him. He leans down and kisses him again and, afterwards, Credence returns his smile. While Percival watches, he inhales through his mouth, exhales through his nose.

“That’s it,” Percival encourages. “Just relax and try to open up for me. You’re doing fine, Credence.”

Percival runs his finger lightly over his entrance again. Credence sighs, long and shaky, and Percival feels the moment when he loosens, pushing in to the first knuckle.

“There,” he breathes. “There we go.”

He moves his hand over Credence’s cock to keep him hard and presses his finger in deeper. The resistance he felt before is still there, but it’s lessened considerably.

“How’s that?” he asks.

Credence squirms a bit, the corner of his mouth twitching into a grimace. “It’s strange.”

“It’s okay if you don’t like—”

He’s prevented from pulling out again by Credence’s thighs clamping around his arm. The movement draws his finger in all the way and Credence gives a faint whine, closing his eyes.

Percival curls his finger and rubs, letting Credence adjust. He thinks he must have found his prostate after an awkward bit of searching when Credence’s eyes fly open again.

“Oh,” he says, clearly surprised. “That feels…”

“Good?”

Credence nods and his hands move from their death grip on Percival’s upper arms to clench in the sheets beside him. “Keep going,” he says.

Percival does, introducing a second finger when Credence seems ready, half thrusting up into Percival’s hand on his cock, half pushing back onto him in a plea for more. It’s beautiful to see. He stretches Credence slowly, carefully, mesmerised by the way his head tips back to bare his throat, by the low moans that start to spill from between his lips.

“I’m close,” Credence pants, “Percival, stop. Stop touching me.”

Percival obeys immediately. He withdraws both hands and Credence makes a choked noise at the sudden loss of sensation.

“No, I only meant—” Credence breaks off, unable to find the words, and so he shows Percival instead. He uses one hand to guide Percival’s back between his thighs and holds the other in his own, interlocking their fingers. “Too much,” he says, “but I think I’m ready now anyway.”

Percival smiles at his eagerness, but this isn’t something to be rushed. “One more first,” he says. “Then you will be.”

Credence’s breath hitches when Percival presses three fingers into him. The noise makes his own cock throb as if begging for his attention. Ignoring that ache, Percival moves his fingers back and forth, getting Credence used to the added stretch.

Credence soon huffs out a frustrated breath and says, “I’m ready. Don’t make me beg, Percival.”

“I wouldn’t.”

Percival pulls his hand free, conjures more slick, and gives himself a few quick, perfunctory strokes. He rolls Credence onto his back again and moves to lay on top of him, gently pressing him into the mattress.

When he looks down at Credence, the expression of pure trust on his face has Percival burying his own in Credence’s neck. Overwhelmed, he kisses Credence’s throat over and over and hopes it conveys even a fraction of his gratitude, his adoration.

He’s never been anyone’s first.

Credence’s arms come up under his to wrap around him. His fingers rub down the notches at the top of Percival’s spine and his other hand moves up to twine in the hair at the back of his head.

When he can bring himself to look at Credence again, Credence has a soft smile gracing his lips.

“My Percival,” he says. “Always so gentle.”

Percival wants to tell Credence that he’s the only one to ever inspire that in him, but he can’t get the words out. Instead, he cups Credence’s face in one hand, swipes his thumb over the prominent crest of his cheekbone and flicks his eyes downward in question.

“Yes,” Credence says. No hesitation.

It’s all Percival needs.

He kisses Credence as he reaches down and guides himself inside. “Breathe,” he whispers against Credence’s lips when he doesn't release the air he just gulped in and tenses around him. “Breathe with me.”

Credence closes his eyes and matches Percival’s inhales and exhales steadily. The pressure eases. Percival inches forward, achingly slow, teeth gritted with restraint.

A quiet whimper comes from Credence’s throat, but it doesn’t sound like pain. His thighs around Percival’s hips radiate heat, squeezing slightly as his hands press on to Percival’s shoulder blades to pull him closer, deeper.

Percival slides all the way in then and they both moan. Credence’s eyes meet his, wide and shining and so, so vulnerable.

“Tell me you love me,” he pleads.

Percival bows his head and touches his brow to Credence’s. “I love you.”

Two tears escape on either side when Credence blinks. “You can move now,” he says. “It doesn’t hurt, it’s— that’s not why I’m crying.”

“I know,” Percival says.

He knows precisely why Credence is crying. It’s the same reason he is.

“I know,” he repeats, because there’s nothing else to be said.

Percival wipes Credence’s tears away with his knuckles and then takes one of his hands, clasping it hard as he gives a careful thrust. He builds up a rhythm, pulling back, pushing forwards again. With his free hand, he sweeps Credence’s damp, disheveled hair back out of his face for him before trailing his fingers down to Credence’s chest and skimming his thumb over one of his nipples repeatedly.

All the while, Credence trembles and gasps beneath him. Their noses brush with every slight movement and Credence angles his head up for a desperate kiss, teeth tugging at Percival’s lower lip as he alternates between stroking Percival’s back and clutching at it fretfully.

His fingertips find the raised edges of all of Percival’s scars. Some are his father’s handiwork, a couple of them he picked up in his work as an Auror. Some are total mysteries that are probably best left unsolved. When he’s mapped all the ridges, Credence grips his shoulders, still trying to pull him closer, closer, until every inch of their chests are touching and their heartbeats are thundering together.

Fingernails dig in to Percival’s back after he speeds up with his thrusts and he relishes that bright, sharp pain. He hopes they leave a mark.

He doesn’t ever pull out of Credence, just rocks into him again and again. Between them, Credence’s erection rubs against his stomach and Percival can feel it sliding smoothly with the pre-come that he’s leaked. They’re both close.

Their kisses become uncoordinated, lips dragging wetly over jaws and cheeks. Eventually, they just pant into each other’s mouths, too overwrought to even try and fit them together.

Credence squeezes his hand hard enough to hurt when he comes. He ducks his head beneath Percival’s chin, whimpering into the skin of his collarbone as he goes rigid and his cock pulses between their stomachs. The feeling of Credence shuddering through his release and then twitching with the aftershocks is more than enough to get Percival there too. He thrusts into Credence one final time, his breath catches in his throat, and then he closes his eyes and lets go.

The intensity of his orgasm both blinds and deafens him for a long moment. He comes around to Credence holding one side of his face, kissing the other, and repeating “I love you” into his ear like a mantra.

He calms that way, heart and breathing rates slowing. He flattens his palm against Credence’s chest and feels the same happening for him too.

The idea of separating himself from Credence pains him. All he can think is that if ever two people were made to be one, surely it was them.

But they can’t stay joined forever. Reluctantly, Percival pulls out, and moves onto his side again. Credence rolls over to face him at once and Percival gathers him close for a weary kiss.

“I wish we had longer together,” Credence mumbles. “I wish you weren’t leaving tomorrow. I just wish— I wish we could go _home_.”

Percival’s chest aches just listening to him, at hearing the word. _Home_. He runs his hand through Credence’s hair, unsure who he’s comforting with the gesture.

“If I don’t go,” he says, “then one day there may not be a home to come back to.”

“I know. That’s why I’m going too.”

Percival says nothing while he works out a tactful way of dissuading Credence from that plan. He continues to softly caress Credence’s back and feels all the scars there that match his.

“You could always go back to America,” he says at length, keeping his tone light and nonchalant. “The estate is yours still. There’s no reason we both have to go to France.”

Credence shocks him then by jabbing a finger in the centre of his chest. “I’m going,” he says fiercely. “I haven’t done all this training to become a Healer just to go home and tend to your _shrubs_ again, Percival.”

“You’re right,” Percival says, unable to bear the thought of Credence being angry with him for even a short time before he leaves tomorrow. “I’m sorry. I just want you safe, that’s all.”

Credence’s face softens again then and he runs an apologetic hand over the spot he just poked. “I know. I want you safe too.”

They stay silent for a long time after that, hearts filled with each other, heads filled with worries of the future.

“Where’s the best place to get a wand in London?” Percival asks when the silence becomes too much. “Is it still Ollivander’s, or is there somewhere else I don’t know about?”

He didn’t have time to get a new one after he was released from prison, after he heard from Theseus and then Credence in quick succession. He just boarded the first ship bound for England.

“Didn’t you get yours back?” Credence asks with a frown.

Percival did, but that wand feels like a stranger to him now. A traitor, even. He never got on that well with it in the first place.

“I can’t go on using it after what happened,” he says. “I need a new one to go to France with. One I can stand the sight of. One I can rely on in a fight.”

His ebony wand was used as part of the evidence that condemned him after it was recovered from the grounds of his estate. _Priori Incantatem_ found that his wand had indeed cast the killing curse that fateful night.

If it worked in the hand of a man like Gellert Grindelwald, Percival wants nothing more to do with it.

“Take mine,” Credence says, already sitting up and turning towards his nightstand beside the bed. “It’s yours, after all.”

Percival sits up too and catches his wrist. “Credence, no, I can’t take your wand. It’s yours now. You need it.”

“Percival, it’s _yours_. I’ve been borrowing it for years, but it’s about time I got my own.”

Credence shakes off his hand and opens the top drawer of his bedside table, pulling a familiar piece of cedar from within. He turns back to Percival and presses it into his hand. “Take it,” he says. “Please, I’d feel better if I knew you were out there with a wand that works for you. You always said it was better than the other one.”

Percival looks down at the wand. Fourteen and a quarter inches long, White River Monster spine core. One of Thiago Quintana’s. He finds his heart _longs_ to cast spells with it again and he wants nothing more than to take it with him to France as a trusted companion, a weapon as well as a shield, and as a tie to Credence. He fits his thumb into one of the smooth prints left by both of their grips.

“Are you sure?” he asks Credence and the question comes out hushed, reverent. It’s an incredible gift he’s being given.

“Certain.” Credence places both hands over the top of his, curling his fingers around the wand. “I’ll get a new one tomorrow.”

“We could go today,” Percival says. “I could come with you.”

Credence shakes his head. “No, I don’t want to waste any of the time we have left together on wand shopping. Apparently, Ollivander makes you try about fifty until you find the right one.”

Percival laughs at that—he’s heard such stories before from Theseus and a couple of other friends who carry his wands. He’d love to know what wood and core types respond to Credence, but he’s right: every minute they have left together is precious.

“So what _do_ you want to do now?” he asks.

Credence nods at the wand in Percival’s hands. “Why don’t you get familiar with it again?” he says. “Cast some spells for me, like you used to.”

All thoughts of the future get put aside then as they return to the past. Percival tries his best to impress and entertain Credence just like he did in a time much simpler than this one, before Credence ever discovered his own magic. It’s no challenge at all to cast a Patronus with so many memories from the past couple of hours to draw upon and Percival smiles as the silver lynx darts towards and away from Credence as if asking to be chased.

His cedar wand is as responsive and faithful as he remembers it. He easily conjures glittering sparks, harmless flames, turns his own hair green and then pink. He removes and restores his eyebrows and Credence laughs as uncontrollably as he did after Percival cast a mild cheering charm on him just for the pleasure of hearing his breathless giggles.

When their sides and cheeks begin to hurt from laughing so much, they talk. Percival tells him what little he remembers about his time in prison. Credence has more to say and he tells Percival all about his life in London and his work at St. Mungo’s, about his reconciliation with Chastity who came with him to England, about his enduring friendship with Newt and Tina Scamander.

When they tire of talking, they eat together for the very first time, knees bumping beneath Credence’s tiny table in his kitchen, feet tangled.

When darkness falls, Credence asks for Percival to take him to bed again.

“I don’t think I’ll manage ‘all through the night’,” Percival jokes.

Credence blushes at that and Percival presses a fond smile against his blood-warm cheek. “I guess I’ll just have to try my best,” he whispers in his ear.

And when they close their eyes at last to sleep, Percival hopes that morning never comes.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who's supported and encouraged me with this, it means a lot <3


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